THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


($1.25.     Macmillan  &  Co.) 


THE  COMPLETE  "  POEMS  "  of  Mrs.  Julia  C.  R.  Dorr  make  a 
handsome  volume  of  nearly  five  hundred  pages,  which  will  be  sure 
of  a  hearty  welcome  from  all  lovers  of  poetry.  Mrs.  Dorr  has  a 
prominent  place  in  the  ranks  of  American  poets,  and  deservedly 
so,  as  her  work  bears  the  impress  of  genuine  inspiration  and  is  al 
ways  thoughtful  and  helpful ;  moreover,  it  is  finished  and  artistic. 
This  complete  edition  of  her  poems  is  admirably  arranged  ;  and  the 
division  devoted  to  her  sonnets  emphasizes  the  truth  of  the  state 
ment  that  has  often  been  made  concerning  them — namely,  that  they 
are  among  the  best  that  have  been  written  in  this  country.  A 
portrait  of  the  author  is  given  as  a  frontispiece,  and  altogether  the 
volume  is  an  attractive  one.  ($2.50.  Chas.  Scribner's  Sons.) — 
"  THE  MERRIMACK  RIVER  ;  Hellenics,  and  Other  Poems,"  by  Mr. 
Benjamin  W.  Ball,  is  edited,  with  a  somewhat  extended  and  over 
wrought  introduction,  by  Mr.  Frederick  F.  Ayer.  Mr.  Ball's  poems 
are  the  poems  of  a  studious  and  thinking  man,  and  are  very  read 
able  ;  but  they  are  not  calculated  to  tempt  one  to  read  them  twice 
over.  The  volume  is  a  large  one  and  is  well  printed  ;  and  inas 
much  as  Mr.  Emerson  once  wrote  of  the  author,  "  Young  Ball  has 
been  to  see  me,  and  is  a  prodigious  reader,  and  a  youth  of  great 
promise,"  we  have  been  interested  to  read  it,  and  doubtless  there 
are  many  of  our  readers  who  will  also  be  interested  to  do  so.  ($2. 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.) 


F 


POEMS. 


BY 


MRS.   JULIA    C.   R.   DORR, 

AUTHOR  OF  "SIBYL.  HUNTINGTON,"  ETC. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT    &    CO. 

1872. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871,  by 

J.   B.   LIPPINCOTT   &    CO., 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


DEDICATORY. 

e 

Ui 

to      BECAUSE,  O  best  beloved,  thou  hast  been 

So  much  to  me  these  many,  many  years ; 
•<      The  charmed  circle  of  thy  love  within     , 

Holding  me  safe  from  woman's  bitterest  tears ; 


Because  thy  strength,  in  many  an  hour  of  need, 
<J»  Has  been  my  sure  support,  my  constant  stay, — 

in      No  sword  to  wound  me,  and  no  broken  reed, 
.,          But  a  strong  tower  to  shelter  me  alway; 

Because  thy  heart  still  answers  to  my  own, 

Though  young  Romance  we  buried  long  ago, 
•      What  time  Life's  burdens  were  upon  us  thrown, 
O  And  its  June  roses  lost  their  crimson  glow ; 

O       Because, — but,  ah  !  I  do  not  need  to  tell 

Why  at  thy  feet  I  drop  these  humble  lays ; 
I*  For  in  thy  heart  of  hearts  thou  knowest  well 
ti  Whose  love  makes  beautiful  my  summer  days ! 


(v) 


452645 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Proem n 

The  Dead  Century 13 

Over  the  Wall 22 

A  Few  Words 24 

Vashti's  Scroll 25 

Elsie's  Child 34 

Without  and  Within 41 

Hereafter 43 

Maud  and  Madge 45 

The  Belief  St.  Paul's 47 

Lenora 49 

Hymn  to  Life 50 

A  Dead  Love 52 

Faith 54 

Hymn — (For  the  Opening  of  a  Reform  School) 54 

Margery  Grey 56 

My  Friends 62 

The  Pine-Trees 65 

November 67 

Hilda,  Spinning 68 

Outgrown 71 

A  Picture 74 

The  Pilgrim 76 

A  Mother's  Answer 77 

The  Dream-Land  Grave 78 

For  a  Silver  Wedding 79 

"  Earth  to  Earth" 81 

At  the  Gate 83 

The  Cherry-Tree 84 

(vii) 


viii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

What  my  Friend  said  to  Me 87 

Three  White  Mice 87 

Questionings 89 

Hymn. — No.  I — (For  the  Dedication  of  a  Cemetery) 90 

Hymn. — No.  2 — (For  the  Dedication  of  a  Cemetery) 91 

Night  and  Morning 92 

Maturity 95 

Peace 97 

Yesterday  and  To-Day 98 

De  Profundis 100 

In  the  Garden 101 

The  Humming-Bird 103 

A  Song  for  Two 104 

Once! 105 

What  I  Lost 107 

The  Chimney  Swallow 108 

Catharine no 

Heirship in 

Agnes 113 

My  Mocking-Bird 115 

Under  the  Palm-Trees 117 

Hymn — (For  an  Installation) 118 

Weariness....'. 120 

Ode — (For  the  Dedication  of  a  Music-Hall) 121 

"  Lord,  save  or  I  perish" 122 

Never  Again 123 

The  Name 125 

Life 126 

Christmas,  1863 126 

Centennial  Poem... 127 

The  Three  Ships 137 

The  Ghost 140 

"  Into  Thy  Hands" 141 

December  26,  1910 142 

From  Baton  Rouge 146 

The  Vermont  Volunteers 148 

May  6,  1864 152 

Drifted  Apart 154 

The  Drummer  Boy's  Burial 155 

Charley  of  Malvern  Hill 159 

Supplicamus 161 


CONTENTS.  ix 

PAGE 

The  Last  of  Six 163 

A  Memory 167 

Our  Flags  at  the  Capitol 168 

1865 170 

Waiting  for  Letters 172 

Idle  Words 173 

Incompleteness 174 


Coming  Home 179 

Hidden  Away 181 

Wakening  Early 182 

Nellie's  Mother 183 

So  Long 185 

Blest 186 

Four  Years 187 

Then  and  Now 188 

Remembrance 189 

A  Vision 190 


PROEM. 

No  words  of  wondrous  power  are  mine, 
No  spells  to  charm  the  listening  throng; 

I  do  not  hope  to  join  the  ranks 

Of  those  who  breathe  immortal  song. 

Nor  would  I,  with  irreverent  tread, 
Approach  the  altars  where  THEY  stand, 

THE  MIGHTY  MASTERS,  laurel-crowned, 
Each  with  the  palm-branch  in  his  hand. 

Ah  !  rather  would  I  veil  my  face, 
And  kneel  afar  in  humblest  awe; 

As  he  who,  trembling  and  afraid, 
The  glory  of  Mount  Sinai  saw. 

But  not  the  eagle,  only,  soars 
From  its  lone  eyrie  to  the  sun; 

The  lark  springs  from  its  grassy  nest, 
And  sings,  ere  day  has  well  begun. 

And  not  the  Pole  star,  only,  burns 

Through  the  long  watches  of  the  night; 

Yon  tiny  spark,  far  off  and  dim, 
Sends  meekly  forth  its  little  light. 


12  PROEM. 

And  not  the  Queen  Rose,  only,  lends 
Its  rich  breath  to  the  summer  air; 

Ten  thousand  small,  sweet  censers  swing 
In  field  and  woodland  everywhere. 

And  not  before  the  All-Father's  throne 
Do  seraph  voices,  only,  rise ; 

The  babe  that  died  an  hour  ago 
Now  joins  the  anthem  of  the  skies. 

And  though  I  may  not  hope  to  clothe 
Profoundest  thought  in  stately  rhyme, 

Nor  breathe  the  burning  words  that  pass 
From  age  to  age,  from  clime  to  clime : 

Yet  God  and  Nature  bid  me  sing, 
Albeit  my  notes  are  faint  and  few; 

I  dare  not  question  nor  refuse, 
But  humbly  strive  their  will  to  do. 

And  it  may  be  my  simple  songs 

May  reach  some  weary,  world-worn  ear, 

And  soothe  some  heart  that  could  not  bear 
A  louder,  loftier  strain  to  hear. 


THE   DEAD   CENTURY. 
1770-1870. 

Lo !  we  come 

Bearing  the  Century,  cold  and  dumb  ! 
Folded  above  the  mighty  breast 
Lie  the  hands  that  have  earned  their  rest ; 
Hushed  are  the  grandly-speaking  lips; 
Closed  are  the  eyes  in  drear  eclipse ; 
And  the  sculptured  limbs  are  deathly  still, 
Responding  not  to  the  eager  will, 

As  we  come 
Bearing  the  Century,  cold  and  dumb ! 

n. 

Lo  !  we  wait 

Knocking  here  at  the  sepulchre's  gate  ! 
Souls  of  the  ages  passed  away, 
A  mightier  joins  your  ranks  to-day ; 
Open  your  doors  and  give  him  room, 
Buried  Centuries,  in  your  tomb  ! 
For  calmly  under  this  heavy  pall 
Sleepeth  the  kingliest  of  ye  all, 

While  we  wait 
At  the  sepulchre's  awful  gate  ! 

in. 

Yet — pause  here 
Bending  low  o'er  the  narrow  bier  ! 

*  ( n> 


THE  DEAD    CENTURY. 

Pause  ye  awhile  and  let  your  thought 
Compass  the  work  that  he  hath  wrought; 
Look  on  his  brow  so  scarred  and  worn ; 
Think  of  the  weight  his  hands  have  borne; 
Think  of  the  fetters  he  hath  broken, 
Of  the  mighty  words  his  lips  have  spoken 

Who  lies  here 
Dead  and  cold  on  a  narrow  bier ! 


IV. 

Ere  he  goes 

Silent  and  calm  to  his  grand  repose, — 
While  the  Centuries  in  their  tomb 
Crowd  together  to  give  him  room, 
Let  us  think  of  the  wondrous  deeds 
Answering  still  to  the  world's  great  needs, 
Answering  still  to  the  world's  wild  prayer, 
He  hath  been  first  to  do  and  dare  ! 

Ah !  he  goes 
Crowned  with  bays  to  his  last  repose. 


v. 

When  the  earth 
Sang  for  joy  to  hail  his  birth, 
Over  the  hilltops,  faint  and  far, 
Glimmered  the  light  of  Freedom's  star. 
Only  a  poor,  pale  torch  it  seemed — 
Dimly  from  out  the  clouds  it  gleamed — 
Oft  to  the  watcher's  eye  'twas  lost 
Like  a  flame  by  fierce  winds  rudely  tossed. 

Scarce  could  earth 
Catch  one  ray  when  she  hailed  his  birth  ! 


THE  DEAD   CENTURY.  15 

VI. 

But  ere  long 

His  young  voice,  like  a  clarion  strong, 
Rang  through  the  wilderness  far  and  free, 
Prophet  and  herald  of  Good  to  be  ! 
Then  with  a  shout  the  stalwart  men 
Answered  proudly  from  mount  and  glen, 
Till  in  the  brave,  new,  western  world 
Freedom's  banners  were  wide  unfurled  ! 

And  ere  long 
The  Century's  voice,  like  a  clarion  strong, 

VII. 

Cried,  "O  Earth, 
Paeans  sing  for  a  Nation's  birth  ! 
Shout  hosannas,  ye  golden  stars, 
Peering  through  yonder  cloudy  bars  ! 
Burn,  O  Sun,  with  a  clearer  beam  ! 
Shine,  O  Moon,  with  a  softer  gleam  ! 
Join,  ye  winds,  in  the  choral  strain  ! 
Swell,  rolling  seas,  the  glad  refrain, 

While  the  Earth 
Paeans  sings  for  a  Nation's  birth  !" 

VIII. 

Ah  !  he  saw — 

This  young  prophet  with  solemn  awe — 
How  after  weary  pain  and  sin, 
Strivings  without  and  foes  within, 
Fruitless  prayings  and  long  suspense, 
And  toil  that  bore  no  recompense, — 
After  peril  and  blood  and  tears, 
Honor  and  Peace  should  crown  the  years ! 


1 6  THE  DEAD   CENTURY. 

This  he  saw 
While  his  heart  thrilled  with  solemn  awe. 

IX. 

His  clear  eyes 

Gazing  forward  in  glad  surprise, 
Saw  how  our  land  at  last  should  be 
Truly  the  home  of  the  brave  and  free  ! — 
Saw  from  the  old  world's  crowded  streets, 
Pestilent  cities  and  close  retreats, 
Forms  gaunfand  pallid  with  famine  sore 
Flee  in  hot  haste  to  our  happy  shore, 

Their  sad  eyes 
Widening  ever  in  new  surprise. 

x. 

From  all  lands 

Thronging  they  come  in  eager  bands ; 
Each  with  the  tongue  his  mother  spoke ; 
Each  with  the  songs  her  v®ice  awoke ; 
Each  with  his  dominant  hopes  and  needs, 
Alien  habits  and  varying  creeds. 
Bringing  strange  fictions  and  fancies  they  came, 
Calling  old  truths  by  a  different  name, 

When  the  lands 
Sent  their  sons  hither  in  thronging  bands. 

XI. 

But  the  Seer — 

This  dead  Century  lying  here — 
Rising  out  of  this  chaos,  saw 
Peace  and  Order  and  Love  and  Law ! 
Saw  by  what  subtle  alchemy 


THE  DEAD    CENTURY. 

Basest  of  metals  at  length  should  be 
Transmuted  into  the  shining  gold, 
Meet  for  a  king  to  have  and  hold. 

Ah  !  great  Seer  ! 
This  pale  Century  lying  here  ! 

XII. 

So  he  taught 

Honest  freedom  of  speech  and  thought ; 
Taught  that  Truth  is  the  grandest  thing 
Painter  can  paint,  or  poet  sing; 
Taught  that  under  the  meanest  guise 
It  marches  to  deeds  of  high  emprise ; 
Treading  the  paths  the  prophets  trod 
Up  to  the  very  mount  of  God  ! 

Truth,  he  taught, 
Claims  full  freedom  of  speech  and  thought. 

XIII. 

Bearing  long 

Heavy  burdens  of  hate  and  wrong, 
Still  has  the  arm  of  the  Century  been 
Waging  war  against  crime  and  sin. 
Still  has  he  plead  Humanity's  cause ; 
Still  has  he  prayed  for  equal  laws ; 
Still  has  he  taught  that  the  human  race 
Is  one  in  despite  of  hue  or  place, 

Even  though  long 
It  has  wrestled  with  hate  and  wrong. 

XIV. 

And  at  length — 
A  giant  arising  in  his  strength — 


1 8  THE  DEAD    CENTURY. 

The  fetters  of  serf  and  slave  he  broke, 
Smiting  them  off  by  a  single  stroke  ! 
Over  the  Muscovite's  waste  of  snows, 
Up  from  the  fields  where  the  cotton  grows, 
Clearly  the  shout  of  deliverance  rang, 
When  chattel  and  serf  to  manhood  sprang, 

As  at  length 
The  giant  rose  up  in  resistless  strength. 


xv. 

Far  apart — 

Each  alone  like  a  lonely  heart — 
Sat  the  Nations,  until  his  hand 
Wove  about  them  a  wondrous  band ; 
Wrought  about  them  a  mighty  chain 
Binding  the  mountains  to  the  main  ! 
Distance  and  time  rose  dark  between 
Islands  and  continents  still  unseen, 

While  apart 
None  felt  the  throb  of  another's  heart. 

XVI. 

But  to-day 

Time  and  space  hath  he  swept  away  ! 
Side  by  side  do  the  Nations  sit 
By  ties  of  brotherhood  closer  knit  ;— 
Whispers  float  o'er  the  rolling  deep ; 
Voices  echo  from  steep  to  steep ; — 
Nations  speak,  and  the  quick  replies 
Fill  the  earth  and  the  vaulted  skies ; 

For  to-day 
Time  and  distance  are  swept  away. 


THE   DEAD   CENTURY. 
XVII. 

If  strange  thrills 

Quicken  Rome  on  her  seven  hills ; 
If  afar  on  her  sultry  throne 
India  wails  and  makes  her  moan  ; 
If  the  eagles  of  haughty  France 
Fall  as  the  Prussian  hosts  advance, 
All  the  continents,  all  the  lands, 
Feel  the  shock  through  their  clasped  hands, 

And  quick  thrills 
Stir  the  remotest  vales  and  hills. 


XVIII. 

Yet  these  eyes, 

Dark  on  whose  lids  Death's  shadow  lies, 
Let  their  far-reaching  vision  rest 
Not  alone  on  the  mountain's  crest ; 
Nor  did  these  feet  with  stately  tread 
Follow  alone  where  the  Nations  led ; 
Nor  these  pale  hands,  so  weary- worn, 
Minister  only  where  States  were  born. 

These  clear  eyes, 
Soft  on  whose  lids  Death's  slumber  lies, 


XIX. 

Turned  their  gaze 
Earnest  and  pitiful,  on  the  ways 
Where  the  poor,  burdened  sons  of  toil 
Earned  their  bread  amid  dust  and  moil. 
Saw  the  dim  attics  where,  day  by  day, 
Women  were  stitching  their  lives  away, 


20  THE  DEAD    CENTURY. 

Bending  low  o'er  the  slender  steel 
Till  heart  and  brain  began  to  reel, 

And  their  days 
Stretched  on  and  on  in  a  dreary  maze. 

xx. 

Then  he  spoke ; 
Lo  !  at  once  into  being  woke 
Muscles  of  iron,  arms  of  steel, 
Nerves  that  never  a  thrill  could  feel ! 
Wheels  and  pulleys  and  whirling  bands 
Did  the  work  of  the  weary  hands, 
And  tireless  feet  moved  to  and  fro 
Where  the  aching  limbs  were  wont  to  go, 

When  he  spoke 
And  all  his  sprites  into  being  woke. 

XXI. 

Do  you  say 

He  was  no  saint  who  has  passed  away  ? 
Saint  or  sinner,  he  did  brave  deeds 
Answering  still  to  Humanity's  needs  ! 
Songs  he  hath  sung  that  shall  live  for  aye ; 
Words  he  hath  uttered  that  ne'er  shall  die ; 
Richer  the  world  than  when  the  earth 
Sang  for  joy  to  hail  his  birth, 

Even  though  you  say 
He  was  no  saint  whom  we  sing  to-day. 

XXII. 

Lo !  we  come 
Bearing  the  Century,  cold  and  dumb  ! 


THE  DEAD    CENTURY.  2I 

Folded  above  the  mighty  breast 
Lie  the  hands  that  have  earned  their  rest ; 
Hushed  are  the  grandly-speaking  lips ; 
Closed  are  the  eyes  in  drear  eclipse ; 
And  the  sculptured  limbs  are  deathly  still, 
Responding  not  to  the  eager  will, 

As  we  come 
Bearing  the  Century,  cold  and  dumb  ! 

XXIII. 

Lo  !  we  wait 

Knocking  here  at  the  sepulchre's  gate  ! 
Souls  of  the  Ages  passed  away, 
A  mightier  joins  your  ranks  to-day ; 
Open  your  doors,  ye  royal  dead, 
And  welcome  give  to  this  crowned  head  ! 
For  calmly  under  this  sable  pall 
Sleepeth  the  kingliest  of  ye  all,  - 

While  we  wait 
At  the  sepulchre's  awful  gate  ! 

XXIV. 

Give  him  room 

Proudly,  Centuries  !  in  your  tomb. 
Now  that  his  weary  work  is  done 
Honor  and  rest  he  well  hath  won. 
Let  him  who  is  first  among  you  pay 
Homage  to  him  who  comes  this  day, 
Bidding  him  pass  to  his  destined  place, 
Noblest  of  all  his  noble  race  ! 

Make  ye  room 
For  the  kingly  dead  in  the  silent  tomb  ! 


22  OVER    THE    WALL. 


OVER  THE   WALL. 

I  KNOW  a  spot  where  the  wild  vines  creep, 

And  the  coral  moss-cups  grow, 
And  where,  at  the  foot  of  the  rocky  steep, 

The  sweet  blue  violets  blow. 
There  all  day  long,  in  the  summer-time, 
You  may  hear  the  river's  dreamy  rhyme; 
There  all  day  long  does  the  honey-bee 
Murmur  and  hum  in  the  hollow  tree. 

And  there  the  feathery  hemlock  makes 

A  shadow  cool  and  sweet, 
While  from  its  emerald  wing  it  shakes 

Rare  incense  at  your  feet. 
There  do  the  silvery  lichens  cling, 
There  does  the  tremulous  harebell  swing; 
And  many  a  scarlet  berry  shines 
Deep  in  the  green  of  the  tangled  vines. 

Over  the  wall  at  dawn  of  day, 

Over  the  wall  at  noon, 
Over  the  wall  when  the  shadows  say 

That  night  is  coming  soon, 
A  little  maiden  with  laughing  eyes 
Climbs  in  her  eager  haste,  and  hies 
Down  to  the  spot  where  the  wild  vines  creep, 
And  violets  bloom  by  the  rocky  steep. 


23 


OVER    THE    WALL. 

All  wild  things  love  her.     The  murmuring  bee 

Scarce  stirs  when  she  draws  near, 
And  sings  the  bird  in  the  hemlock-tree 

Its  sweetest  for  her  ear. 
The  harebells  nod  as  she  passes  by, 
The  violet  lifts  its  calm  blue  eye, 
The  ferns  bend  lowly  her  steps  to  greet, 
And  the  mosses  creep  to  her  dancing  feet. 

Up  in  her  pathway  seems  to  spring 

All  that  is  sweet  or  rare, — 
Chrysalis  quaint,  or  the  moth's  bright  wing, 

Or  flower-buds  strangely  fair. 
She  watches  the  tiniest  bird's-nest  hid 
The  thickly  clustering  leaves  amid; 
And  the  small  brown  tree-toad  on  her  arm 
Quietly  hops,  and  fears  no  harm. 


Ah,  child  of  the  laughing  eyes,  and  heart 

Attuned  to  Nature's  voice! 
Thou  hast  found  a  bliss  that  will  ne'er  depart 

While  earth  can  say,  "Rejoice!" 
The  years  must  come,  and  the  years  must  go ; 
But  the  flowers  will  bloom,  and  the  breezes  blew, 
And  bird  and  butterfly,  moth  and  bee, 
Bring  on  their  swift  wings  joy  to  thee ! 


24  A   FEW   WORDS. 


A   FEW  WORDS. 

OH,  faithful  friend  of  other  days ! 

My  grateful  heart  would  speak  to  thee; 
Turn  from  thy  far-off  busy  ways, 

And  listen  as  of  old  to  me. 

I  fain  would  speak,  yet  know  not  how: 

A  gulf,  impassable  as  death, 
Lies,  broad  and  deep,  between  us  now — 

Thou  canst  not  hear  my  feeble  breath ! 

But  once  within  the  silent  void 
I'll  drop  a  blossom,  fair  and  sweet; 

From  out  the  darkness  unalloyed 
Some  power  may  bear  it  to  thy  feet. 

Its  name  is  Gratitude.     Thy  heart 
Will  tell  thee  in  what  soil  it  grew; 

What  influence  bade  the  flower-bud  start, 
Watered  by  tears,  instead  of  dew. 

Could  I  but  give  it  voice,  O  friend, 
And  bid  it  for  my  sealed  lips  speak ! 

But  ah !  even  then  I  could  not  send 

Thee  half  my  thought,  for  words  are  weak ; 

Too  weak  to  tell  thee  how  I  keep 
Thy  memory  in  my  inmost  heart 

Not  a  pale  corse  that  lies  asleep, 

But  throned  and  crowned,  of  life  a  part. 


VASHTPS  SCROLL. 

I  write  no  word,  I  sing  no  song, 

That  does  not  bring  thee  back  to  me; 

Oh,  thou  whose  wisdom  made  me  strong, 
How  much  I  owe  to  God  and  thee ! 

And  as  the  swift-winged  years  fly  past, 
Methinks  I  miss  thee  more  and  more; 

Be  patient,  oh,  my  heart !     At  last 
We'll  meet  upon  the  farther  shore. 

Farewell !     My  lot  is  deeply  blest ; 

May  thine  be  just  as  bright,  I  pray; 
May  kind  Earth  give  thee  of  her  best, 

And  Heaven  be  near  to  thee  alway ! 


VASHTI'S  SCROLL. 

DETHRONED  and  crownless,  I  so  late  a  queen ! 
Forsaken,  poor  and  lonely,  I  who  wore 
The  crown  of  Persia  with  such  stately  grace ! 
But  yesterday  a  royal  wife;  but  now 
From  my  estate  cast  down,  and  fallen  so  low 
That  beggars  scoff  at  me !     Men  toss  my  name 
Backward  and  forward  on  their  mocking  tongues. 
In  all  the  king's  broad  realm  there  is  not  one 
To  do  poor  Vashti  homage.     Even  the  dog 
My  hand  had  fondled,  in  the  palace  walls 
Fawns  on  my  rival.     When  I  left  the  court, 
Weeping  and  sore  distressed,  he  followed  me, 
Licking  my  fingers,  leaping  in  my  face, 
And  frisking  round  me  till  I  reached  the  gates. 
Then  with  long  pauses,  as  of  one  perplexed, 

3 


26  VASHTPS  SCROLL. 

And  frequent  lockings  backward,  and  low  whines 

Of  puzzled  wonder, — that  had  made  me  smile 

If  I  had  been  less  lorn, — with  drooping  ears, 

Dropt  eyes,  and  downcast  forehead  he  went  back, 

Leaving  me  desolate.     So  went  they  all 

Who,  when  Ahasuerus  on  my  brow 

Set  his  own  royal  crown  and  called  me  queen, 

Made  the  air  ring  with  plaudits !     Loud  they  cried, 

"Long  live  Queen  Vashti,  Persia's  fairest  Rose, 

Mother  of  Princes,  and  the  nation's  Hope!" 

The  rose  is  withered  now;  the  queen  is  dead, 

To  these  poor  breasts  no  princely  boy  shall  cling, 

And  I  shall  hold  no  darling  on  my  knee, 

To  love  as  son  and  reverence  as  king ! 

A  poor,  dishonored  thing !     Yet  on  this  scroll 

I  will  rehearse  the  story  of  my  woes; 

And  when  I  die,  held  closely  to  my  heart, 

Or  clasped  in  stiffened  fingers,  it  shall  go 

To  the  tomb  with  me.     Then  perchance  some  one, 

In  the  far  future  years  of  which  they  tell, 

Shall  find  the  yellow  parchment,  and  with  eyes 

Wet  with  sad  tears,  shall  read  my  cruel  fate. 


O !  thou  unknown,  unborn,  who  through  the  gloom 
And  mists  of  ages  in  my  vaulted  tomb 
Shalt  find  this  parchment,  and  with  reverent  care 
Shalt  bear  it  outward  to  the  sun  and  air: 

0  !  thou  whose  patient  fingers  shall  unroll 
With  slow,  persuasive  touch  this  little  scroll, — 
O,  loving,  tender  eyes  that,  like  twin  stars, 

1  seem  to  see  through  yonder  cloudy  bars, — 
Read  Vashti's  story,  and  I  pray  ye  tell 

The  whole  wide  world  if  she  did  ill  or  well ! 


VASHTrS  SCROLL.  27 

Ahasuerus  reigned.     On  Persia's  throne, 

Lord  of  a  mighty  realm,  he  sat  alone, 

And  stretched  his  sceptre  from  the  farthest  slope 

Of  India's  hills,  to  where  the  Ethiop 

Dwelt  in  barbaric  splendor.     Kinglier  king 

Never  did  poet  praise  or  minstrel  sing ! 

He  had  no  peers.     Among  his  lords  he  shone 

As  shines  a  planet,  single  and  alone ; 

And  I,  alas !  I  loved  him !  Crowned  queen, 

Clasping  the  sceptre  my  small  hands  between, 

I  might  have  reigned,  yet  kept  a  heart  as  free 

As  this  light  breeze  that  sweeps  the  Persian  sea ! 

But,  ah !  I  loved  my  king — the  kingly  man 

Forth  at  whose  call  my  glad  heart  quickly  ran 

Owning  its  lord  and  master.     Oh !  we  two 

Such  bliss  as  peasant  lovers  joy  in,  knew ! 

No  lowly  home  in  all  our  wide  domain 

Held  more  of  peace  than  ours,  or  less  of  pain. 

But  one  dark  day — O,  woeful  day  of  days ! 

Whose  hours  I  number  now  in  sad  amaze, 

Thou  hadst  no  prophet  of  the  ills  to  be, 

Nor  sign  nor  omen  came  to  succor  me ! — 

That  day  Ahasuerus  smiled  and  said, 

"  Since  first  I  wore  this  crown  upon  my  head 

Thrice  have  the  emerald  clusters  of  the  vine 

Changed  to  translucent  globes  of  ruby  wine; 

And  thrice  the  peaches  on  the  loaded  walls 

Have  slowly  rounded  into  wondrous  balls 

Of  gold  and  crimson.     I  will  make  a  feast. 

Princes  and  lords,  the  greatest  and  the  least, 

All  Persia  and  all  Media,  shall  see 

The  pomp  and  splendor  that  encompass  me. 

The  riches  of  my  kingdom  shall  be  shown, 

And  all  my  glorious  majesty  made  known 


28  VASHTPS  SCROLL. 

Where'er  the  shadow  of  my  sceptred  hand 
Sways  a  great  people  with  its  mute  command!" 
Then  came  from  far  and  near  a  hurrying  throng 
Of  skilled  and  cunning  workmen.     All  day  long 
And  far  into  the  silent  night,  they  wrought 
Most  quaint  and  beautiful  devices — still 
Responsive  to  their  master's  eager  will, 
And  giving  form  to  his  creative  thought — 
Till  Shushan  grew  a  marvel ! 

Never  yet 

Yon  rolling  sun  on  fairer  scene  has  set : 
The  palace  windows  were  ablaze  with  light; 
And  Persia's  lords  were  there,  most  richly  dight 
In  broidered  silks,  or  costliest  cloth  of  gold, 
That  kept  the  sunshine  in  each  lustrous  fold, 
Or  softly  flowing  tissues,  pure  and  white 
As  fleecy  clouds  at  noonday.     Clear  and  bright 
Shone  the  pure  gold  of  Ophir,  and  the  gleam 
Of  burning  gems,  that  mocked  the  pallid  beam 
Of  the  dim,  wondering  stars,  made  radiance  there, 
Radiance  undreamed  of,  and  beyond  compare ! 
Up  from  the  gardens  floated  the  perfume 
Of  rose  and  myrtle,  in  their  perfect  bloom; 
The  red  pomegranate  cleft  its  heart  in  twain, 
Pouring  its  life  blood  in  a  crimson  rain; 
The  slight  acacia  waved  its  yellow  plumes, 
And  afar  off  amid  the  starlit  glooms 
Were  sweet  recesses,  where  the  orange  bowers 
Dropt  their  pure  blossoms  down  in  snowy  showers, 
And  night  reigned  undisturbed. 

From  cups  of  gold 

Diverse  one  from  another,  meet  to  hold 
The  king's  most  costly  wines,  or  to  be  raise 
To  princely  lips,  the  gay  guests  drank,  and  praised 


VASHTPS  SCROLL.  29 

Their  rich  abundance.     Softest  music  swept 
Through  the  vast  arches,  till  men  smiled  and  wept 
For  very  joy.     Then  slowly  keeping  time 
To  the  gay  cymbal's  clearly  ringing  chime, 
Stole  down  the  long  arcades  the  dancing-girls; 
Some  with  dark,  braided  tresses,  some  with  curls 
Like  golden  sunbeams,  floating  unconfined 
Save  by  the  wreaths  amid  their  brightness  twined, 
And  softly  rounded  limbs,  that  rose  and  fell 
To  the  voluptuous  music's  dreamy  swell, 
So  full  of  subtle  power,  it  seemed  to  be 
The  voice  of  passion  and  of  mystery ! 

Wild  waxed  the  revel.     On  an  ivory  throne 
Inlaid  with  ebony  and  gems  that  shone 
With  a  surpassing  lustre,  sat  my  lord, 
The  King  Ahasuerus.     His  great  sword, 
Blazing  with  diamonds  on  hilt  and  blade, — 
The  mighty  sword  that  made  his  foes  afraid, — 
And  the  proud  sceptre  he  was  wont  to  grasp, 
With  all  the  monarch  in  his  kingly  clasp, 
Against  the  crouching  lions  (guard  that  kept 
On  either  side  the  throne  and  never  slept), 
Leaned  carelessly.     And  flowing  downward  o'er 
The  ivory  steps  even  to  the  marble  floor, 
Swept  the  rich  royal  robes  in  many  a  fold 
Of  Tyrian  purple  flecked  with  purest  gold. 
The  heavy  crown  his  head  refused  to  wear, 
More  fitly  crowned  by  its  own  clustering  hair, 
Lay  on  a  pearl-wrought  cushion  by  his  side, 
Mute  symbol  of  great  Persia's  power  and  pride  ; 
While  on  his  brow  some  courtier's  hand  had  placed 
The  fairest  chaplet  monarch  ever  graced, 
3* 


3  VASHTFS  SCROLL. 

A  wreath  of  dewy  roses,  fresh  and  sweet, 

Just  brought  from  out  the  garden's  cool  retreat. 

Louder  and  louder  grew  the  sounds  of  mirth  ; 
Faster  and  faster  flowed  the  red  wine  forth ; 
In  high,  exulting  strains  the  minstrels  sang 
The  monarch's  glory,  till  the  great  roof  rang; 
And  flushed  at  length  with  pride  and  song  and  wine, 
The  king  rose  up  and  said,  "  O  nobles  mine  ! 
Princes  of  Persia,  Media's  hope  and  pride, 
Stars  of  my  kingdom,  will  ye  aught  beside  ? 
Speak  !  and  I  swear  your  sovereign's  will  shall  be 
On  this  fair  night  to  please  and  honor  ye  !" 
Then  rose  a  shout  from  out  the  glittering  throng 
Drowning  the  voice  of  merriment  and  song. 
Humming  and  murmuring  like  a  hive  of  bees — 
What  would  they  more  each  charmed  sense  to  please  ? 

Out  spoke  at  last  a  tongue  that  should  have  been 
Palsied  in  foul  dishonor  there  and  then. 
"  O  great  Ahasuerus  !  ne'er  before 
Reigned  such  a  king  so  blest  a  people  o'er  ! 
What  shall  we  ask?  What  great  and  wondrous  boon 
To  crown  the  hours  that  fly  away  too  soon  ? 
There  is  but  one.     'Tis  said  that  mortal  eyes 
Never  yet  gazed,  in  strange  yet  sweet  surprise, 
Upon  a  face  like  that  of  her  who  wears 
Thy  signet-ring,  and  all  thy  glory  shares, — 
Our  fair  Queen  Vashti,  she  who  yet  shall  be 
Mother  of  him  who  reigneth  after  thee  ! 
Show  us  her  royal  beauty  !  Naught  beside 
Can  fill  our  cup  of  happiness  and  pride." 
A  murmur  ran  throughout  the  startled  crowd, 
Swelling  at  last  to  plaudits  long  and  loud. 


VASHTPS  SCROLL. 

Maddened  with  wine,  they  knew  not  what  they  said. 

Ahasuerus  bent  his  haughty  head, 

And  for  an  instant  o'er  his  face  there  swept 

A  look  his  courtiers  in  their  memory  kept 

For  many  a  day — a  look  of  doubt  and  pain, 

They  scarcely  caught  ere  it  had  passed  again. 

"  My  kingly  word  is  pledged."     Then  to  the  seven 

Lord  chamberlains  to  whom  the  keys  were  given : 

"  Haste  ye,  and  to  this  noble  presence  bring 

Vashti,  the  Queen,  with  royal  crown  and  ring ; 

And  let  the  people  see  the  matchless  charms 

That  Heaven  has  sent  to  bless  my  kingly  arms. ' ' 

They  did  their  errand,  those  old,  gray-haired  men, 

Who  should  have  braved  the  lion  in  his  den, 

Or  ere  they  bore  such  message  to  their  queen, 

Or  took  such  words  their  aged  lips  between. 

What !  I,  the  daughter  of  a  kingly  race, 

Step  down,  unblushing,  from  my  lofty  place, 

And,  like  a  common  dancing-girl,  who  wears 

Her  beauty  unconcealed,  and,  shameless,  bares 

Her  brow  to  every  gazer,  boldly  go 

Before  those  men  my  unveiled  face  to  show  ? 

I — who  had  kept  my  beauty  pure  and  bright 

Only  because  'twas  precious  in  his  sight, 

Guarding  it  ever  as  a  holy  thing, 

Sacred  to  him,  my  lover,  lord,  and  king, — 

Could  I  reveal  it  to  the  curious  eyes 

Of  the  mad  rabble  that  with  drunken  cries 

Were  shouting  "  Vashti !  Vashti !" — Sooner  far, 

Beyond  the  rays  of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star, 

I  would  have  buried  it  in  endless  night ! 

Pale  and  dismayed,  in  wonder  and  affright, 

My  maidens  hung  around  me  as  I  told 

Those  seven  lord  chamberlains,  so  gray  and  old, 


32 


VASHTPS  SCROLL. 


To  bear  this  answer  back :   "It  may  not  be. 

My  lord,  my  king,  I  cannot  come  to  thee. 

It  is  not  meet  that  Persia's  queen,  like  one 

Who  treads  the  market-place  from  sun  to  sun, 

Should  bare  her  beauty  to  the  hungry  crowd, 

Who  name  her  name  in  accents  hoarse  and  loud." 

With  stern,  cold  looks  they  left  me.     Ah !  I  knew 

If  my  dear  lord  to  his  best  self  were  true, 

That  he  would  hold  me  guiltless,  and  would  say, 

"  I  thank  thee,  love,  that  thou  didst  riot  obey!" 

But  the  red  wine  was  ruling  o'er  his  brain ; 

The  cruel  wine  that  recked  not  of  my  pain. 

Up  from  the  angry  throng  a  clamor  rose ; 

The  flattering  sycophants  were  now  my  foes ; 

And  evil  counsellors  about  the  throne, 

Hiding  the  jealous  joy  they  dared  not  own, 

With  slow,  wise  words,  and  many  a  virtuous  frown, 

Said,  "  Be  the  queen  from  her  estate  cast  down  ! 

Let  her  not  see  the  king's  face  evermore, 

Nor  come  within  his  presence  as  of  yore ; 

So  disobedient  wives  through  all  the  land 

Shall  read  the  lesson,  heed  and  understand." 

Up  spoke  another,  eager  to  be  heard, 

In  royal  councils  fain  to  have  a  word, 

"  Let  this  commandment  of  the  king  be  writ, 

In  the  law  of  the  Medes  and  Persians,  as  is  fit, — 

The  perfect  law  that  man  may  alter  not 

Nor  of  its  bitter  end  abate  one  jot." 

Alas  !  the  king  was  wroth.     Before  his  face 

I  could  not  go  to  plead  my  piteous  case ; 

But,  pitiless,  with  scarce  dissembled  sneers, 

And  poisoned  words  that  rankled  in  his  ears, 

My  wily  foes,  afraid  to  let  him  pause, 

Brought  the  great  book  that  held  the  Persian  laws, 


VASIITPS  SCROLL. 


33 


And  ere  the  rising  of  the  morrow's  sun, 

My  bitter  doom  was  sealed,  the  deed  was  done. 

Scarce  had  two  moons  passed  when  one  dreary  night 

I  sat  within  my  bower  in  woeful  plight, 

Weary  and  heartsick,  as  one  well  might  be 

Who  trod  the  wine-press  all  alone,  like  me, 

When  suddenly  upon  my  presence  stole 

A  muffled  form,  whose  shadow  stirred  my  soul 

I  knew  not  wherefore.     Ere  my  tongue  could  speak, 

Or  with  a  cry  the  brooding  silence  break, 

A  low  voice  murmured,  "  Vashti !"   With  a  bound 

Of  half-delirious  joy,  upon  the  ground 

At  the  king's  feet  I  fell.     Oh  !  scorn  me  not, 

If  for  one  moment,  all  my  wrongs  forgot, 

I  only  saw  the  sun  that  gave  me  light, 

Breaking  once  more  the  darkness  of  my  night ! 

It  was  but  for  a  moment.     Pale  and  still, 

Hushing  my  heart's  cry  with  an  iron  will, 

"  What  will  the  king?"  I  asked.     No  answer  came, 

But  to  his  sad  eyes  leaped  a  sudden  flame ; 

With  clasping  arms  he  raised  me  to  his  breast 

And  on  my  brow  and  lips  such  kisses  pressed 

As  man  may  give  his  dead — long,  sad,  and  slow, 

Blent  with  great,  shuddering  sighs,  the  overflow 

Of  pent-up  agony  and  direst  need  ! 

Breathless,  ere  long,  and  trembling  like  a  reed, 

I  crept  from  out  his  bosom.     It  could  be 

Ah !  nevermore  a  fitting  place  for  me  ! 

But  when  I  saw  the  anguish  in  his  eyes, 

My  tortured  love  burst  forth  in  tears  and  cries. 

How  could  I  live,  and  bear  my  bitter  doom, 

Thrust  from  the  heart  that  should  have  been  my  1 


34 


ELSIE'S  CHILD. 


Then  were  his  lips  unsealed.     I  cannot  tell 
All  the  wild  words  that  I  remember  well. 
Oh !  was  it  joy  or  was  it  pain  to  know 
That  not  alone  I  wept  my  weary  woe  ? 
Alas  !  I  know  not.     But  I  know  to-day — 
If  this  be  sin,  forgive  me,  Heaven,  I  pray ! — 
That  though  his  eyes  have  never  looked  on  mine 
Since  that  sad  night  in  bower  of  eglantine, 
And  fair  Queen  Esther  sits,  a  beauteous  bride, 
In  stately  Shushan  at  the  monarch's  side, 
The  king  remembers  Vashti,  even  yet 
Breathing  her  name  sometimes  with  vain  regret, 
Or  murmuring,  haply,  in  a  whisper  low, 
' '  Woe  for  the  heart  that  loved  me  long  ago ! ' ' 


ELSIE'S   CHILD. 

A    LEGEND    OF    SWITZERLAND. 
I. 

"COME  and  sit  beside  me,  Elsie, — put  your  little  wheel 
away, — 

Have  you  quite  forgotten,  darling  wife,  this  is  our  wed 
ding-day?" 

Elsie  turned  her  bright  face  towards  him,  fairer  now  than 

when  a  bride ; 
But  she  did  not  cease  her  spinning  while  to  Ulric  she 

replied: 


ELSIE'S   CHILD.  35 

"  No,  I  have  not  quite  forgotten;  all  day  long  my  happy 

brain 
Has  been  living  o'er  the  moments  of  that  blessed  day 

again. 

' '  I  will  come  and  sit  beside  you  when  the  twilight  shadows 

fall; 
You  shall  sing  me  some  old  love-song,  while  the  darkness 

covers  all. 

"But  while  golden  sunbeams  linger  in  the  vale  and  on  the 

hill, 
Ask  me  not  to  bid   the  music  of  my  merry  wheel  be 

still." 

"If  its  humdrum  notes  are  sweeter^ than  thy  husband's 

voice  to  thee, 
Mind  thy  spinning,  Madam  Elsie, — do  not  come  to  sit 

with  me ! ' ' 

"Don't  be  angry  with  me,  Ulric;  see,  the  sun  is  almost 

down, 
And  its  last  red  rays  are  gilding  the  far  steeples  of  the 

town. 

"1  will  come  to  you  directly,  and  will  kiss  that  frown 
away, — 

You  must  not  be  angry,  Ulric,  for  this  is  our  wedding- 
day." 

"If  it  were  not,  I  should  care  not  that  you  will  not  come 
to  me; 

But  this  evening!  prythee,  Elsie,  let  that  tiresome  spin 
ning  be!" 


36  ELSIE'S  CHILD. 

"Why,  to-morrow  is  the  fair-day,  do  you  not  remember, 

dear? 
I  must  spin  a  little  longer;    'tis  the  last  skein  I  have 

here. 

"On  the  wall  are  others  hanging,  very  fine  and  soft  are 

they, 
And  for  them  old  Father  Maurice  will  his  money  gladly 

pay." 

• 

"You  can  buy  a  silken  bodice,  and  a  ribbon  for  your 

hair, 
Or  a  hooded  crimson  mantle, — they  will  make  you  very 

fair! 

"Or  a  necklace  sparkling  grandly,  or  a  kerchief  bright 

and  gay,— 
Yonder  Henri  drives  the  cows  home,  I  will  join  him  on 

the  way." 

"Oh,  no,  Ulric,  do  not  leave  me!"  cried  she,  springing 

to  his  side, 
"I  have  done  my  weary  spinning,  and  the  last  knot  I 

have  tied. 

"Come  with  me,  within  the  cottage,  where  our  Hugo  lies 

asleep, 
Never  saw  you  rest  as  placid  as  his  slumber  soft  and 

deep. 

* '  How  the  flaxen  ringlets  cluster  round  his  forehead  broad 

and  white ! 
Saw  you  ever,  dearest  Ulric,  half  so  beautiful  a  sight  ? 


ELSIE'S  CHILD.  37 

"Now,  if  you  will  smile  upon  me,  just  as  you  were  wont 

to  do, 
While  we  sit  here  in  the  moonlight,  I'll  a  secret  tell  to 

you. 

"I  shall  buy  no  silken  bodice,  and  no  necklace  grand 

and  gay; 
I'm  a  wife  and  mother,  darling,  and  I've  put  such  things 

away. 

"But  a  coat  for  little  Hugo — of  bright  scarlet  it  shall  be, 
Trimmed  with  braid,  and  shining  buttons,  and  the  richest 
broiderie. 

' '  Lady  Alice,  at  the  castle,  soon  will  give  her  birthday 

fete, 
And  last  night  I  chanced  to  meet  her,  as  I  passed  the 

western  gate. 

"  She  was  walking  with  her  maidens,  but  she  bent  her 

stately  head, 
Kissed  our  little  Hugo's  forehead,  as  she  sweetly  smiled, 

and  said : 

'"Bring  him  to  the  castle,  Elsie,  lovelier  boy  was  never 

seen, — 
Bring  him  with  you,  on  my  fete-day,  to  the  dance  upon 

the  green.' 

"So,  to-morrow,  dearest  Ulric,  you  must  surely  go  with 

me, 
And  I'll  buy,  for  little  Hugo,  just  the  prettiest  coat  I 

see ! ' ' 

4 


38  ELSIE'S   CHILD. 

II. 

"There,  my  Hugo,  you  are  ready,  run  out  now  before 

the  door, 
And  I'll  come  to  join  my  little  one,  in  just  five  minutes 

more.  «• 

"How  the  scarlet  coat  becomes  him!  Ulric,  do  but  see 

him  now, 
As  he  shakes  his  head,  and  tosses  back  the  light  curls 

from  his  brow." 

"What  a  vain  young  mother,  Elsie!  from  the  window 
come  away, 

You'll  have  time  enough  to  glory  in  your  pretty  pet  to 
day. 

"Bind  up  now  your  own  bright  tresses;  here  are  roses 

sweet  and  rare, 
With  the  dew  still  lingering  on  them, — you  must  put 

them  in  your  hair. 

"You  must  wear  the  scarf  I  gave  you,  and  the  bracelets, — 

and  I  ween 
That  my  Elsie  '11  be  the  fairest  one  that  dances  on  the 

green." 

"Which  is  now  the  vainest,  Ulric,  tell  me,  is  it  you  or  I? 
I'll  be  ready  in  a  minute;  look  if  you  can  Hugo  spy. 

"It  may  be  that  he  will  wander  where  the  purple  berries 

grow; 
For  the  world  I  would  not  have  him,  they  will  stain  his 

new  coat  so." 


ELSIE'S  CHILD. 


39 


"Elsie !  Elsie ! "    In  a  moment  rose  and  scarf  were  dashed 

aside, 
And  she  stood  within  the  doorway, — "Where  is  Hugo?" 

then  she  cried. 

' '  I  have  traced  his  little  footsteps  where  the  purple  ber 
ries  shine, 

But  I  can  see  nothing  of  him;  do  not  tremble,  Elsie 
mine. 

' '  Very  likely  he  has  wandered^owards  the  castle ;  for  he 

knew — 
Little  wise  one ! — we  were  going,  and  that  he  was  going 

too. 

"We  will  find  him  very  quickly, — he  cannot  have  strayed 

away; 
It  is  not  five  minutes,  darling,  since  you  bade  him  go  and 

play." 

All  day  long  they  sought  for  Hugo, — sought  him  utterly 

in  vain, — 
Sought  him  midst  the  rocks  and  glaciers,  and  beneath 

them,  on  the  plain. 

From  the  castle  Lady  Alice  sent  her  servants  far  and 

wide; 
Mirth  was  lost  in  bitter  mourning,  and  the  voice  of  music 

died. 

Through  the  day  the  air  resounded  with  the  little  lost 

one's  name, 
And  at  night,  with  myriad  torches,  hills  and  woods  were 

all  aflame. 


40  ELSIE'S   CHILD. 

But  they  found  not  pretty  Hugo;  where  the  purple  ber 
ries  grew, 

They  could  see  his  tiny  footsteps, — but  they  nothing  fur 
ther  knew. 

in. 
"Henri!  Henri!  don't  be  gazing  at  the  eagle's  nest  all 

day; 
Long  ago  you  should  have  started  forth,  to  drive  the  cows 

away. ' ' 

"But  come  here  one  moment,  mother,  just  one  moment; 
can  you  see 

Naught  that  flutters  like  a  banner  when  the  wind  is  blow 
ing  free?" 

"Oh,   my  eyes  are  dim  and  aged,"   was  the  withered 

crone's  reply; 
"You  must  look  yourself,  good  Henri,  for  I  nothing  can 

espy. ' ' 

"Then  do  you  come  here,  Enrica;  does  my  sight  deceive 

me  so? 
You  can  see  it,  I  am  certain,  when  the  wind  begins  to 

blow." 

But  Enrica's  cheek  grew  pallid,  and  she  turned  her  eyes 

away, 
Crying,  "Elsie,  my  poor  Elsie !"  It  was  all  that  she  could 

say. 

For  within  that  lofty  eyrie,  on  the  mountain's  craggy 

height, 
Hung  the  coat  of  little  Hugo,  gleaming  in  the  morning 

light, 


WITHOUT  AND    WITHIN.  4I 

With  its  hue  of  brilliant  scarlet,  just  as  bright  as  bright 

could  be, 
WTith  its  gayly  shining  buttons,  and  its  rich  embroiderie! 

Months  and  years  rolled  slowly  onward, — Elsie's  sunny 

hair  turned  gray, 
And  the  eagles  left  the  eyrie  to  its  desolate  decay. 

But,  alas!   whene'er  the  sun  shone,  and  the  wind  was 

blowing  free, 
Something  fluttered  like  a  banner,  which  no  eye  could 

bear  to  see ! 


WITHOUT  AND   WITHIN. 

SOFTLY  the  gold  has  faded  from  the  sky, 

Slowly  the  stars  have  gathered  one  by  one, 
Calmly  the  crescent  moon  mounts  up  on  high, 
And  the  long  day  is  done. 

With  quiet  heart  my  garden-walks  I  tread, 

Feeling  the  beauty  that  I  cannot  see; 
Beauty  and  fragrance  all  around  me  shed 
By  flower,  and  shrub,  and  tree. 

Often  I  linger  where  the  roses  pour 

Exquisite  odors  from  each  glowing  cup; 
Or  where  the  violet,  brimmed  with  sweetness  o'er, 
Lifts  its  small  chalice  up. 
* 


!  WITHOUT  AND    WITHIN. 

With  fragrant  breath  the  lilies  woo  me  now, 

And  softly  speaks  the  sweet-voiced  mignonette, 
While  heliotropes,  with  meekly  lifted  brow, 
Say  to  me,  "Go  not  yet." 

So  for  awhile  I  linger,  but  not  long. 

High  in  the  heavens  rideth  fiery  Mars, 

Careering  proudly  'mid  the  glorious  throng, 

Brightest  of  all  the  stars. 

,  But  softly  gleaming  through  the  curtain's  fold, 
The  home-star  beams  with  more  alluring  ray, 
And,  as  a  star  led  sage  and  seer  of  old, 
So  it  directs  my  way; 

And  leads  me  in  where  my  young  children  lie, 

Rosy  and  beautiful  in  tranquil  rest ; 
The  seal  of  sleep  is  on  each  fast -shut  eye, 

Heaven's  peace  within  each  breast. 

I  bring  them  gifts.     Not  frankincense  nor  myrrh, — 

Gifts  the  adoring  Magi  humbly  brought 
The  young  child,  cradled  in  the  arms  of  her 
Blest  beyond  mortal  thought ; 

But  love — the  love  that  fills  my  mother-heart 

With  a  sweet  rapture  oft  akin  to  pain ; 
Such  yearning  love  as  bids  the  tear-drops  start 
And  fall  like  summer  rain. 

And  faith — that  dares,  for  their  dear  sakes,  to  climb 

Boldly,  where  once  it  would  have  feared  to  go, 
And  calmly  standing  upon  heights  sublime, 
Fears  not  the  storm  below. 


HEREAFTER. 


43 


And  prayer.     O  God !  unto  thy  throne  I  come, 

Bringing  my  darlings, — but  I  cannot  speak. 
With  love  and  awe  oppressed,  my  lips  are  dumb : 
Grant  what  my  heart  would  seek ! 


HEREAFTER. 

O  LAND  beyond  the  setting  sun  ! 

O  realm  more  fair  than  poet's  dream  ! 
How  clear  thy  silvery  streamlets  run, 

How  bright  thy  golden  glories  gleam  ! 

Earth  holds  no  counterpart  of  thine ; 

The  dark-browed  Orient,  jewel-crowned. 
Pales  as  she  bows  before  thy  shrine, 

Shrouded  in  mystery  so  profound. 

The  dazzling  North,  the  stately  West, 
Whose  rivers  flow  from  mount  to  sea ; 

The  South,  flower-wreathed  in  languid  rest, — 
What  are  they  all,  compared  with  thee? 

All  lands,  all  realms  beneath  yon  dome, 

Where  God's  own  hand  hath  hung  the  stars, 

To  thee  with  humblest  homage  come, 
O  world  beyond  the  crystal  bars ! 

Thou  blest  Hereafter !    Mortal  tongue 
Hath  striven  in  vain  thy  speech  to  learn, 

And  Fancy  wanders,  lost  among 

The  flowery  paths  for  which  we  yearn. 


44  HEREAFTER. 

But  well  we  know  that  fair  and  bright, 
Far  beyond  human  ken  or  dream, 

Too  glorious  for  our  feeble  sight, 
Thy  skies  of  cloudless  azure  beam. 

We  know  thy  happy  valleys  lie 
In  green  repose,  supremely  blest ; 

We  know  against  thy  sapphire  sky 
Thy  mountain-peaks  sublimely  rest. 

And  sometimes  even  now  we  catch 

Faint  gleamings  from  thy  far-off  shore, 

And  still  with  eager  eyes  we  watch 
For  one  sweet  sign  or  token  more. 

For,  oh,  the  deeply  loved  are  there  ! 

The  brave,  the  fair,  the  good,  the  wise, 
Who  pined  for  thy  serener  air, 

Nor  shunned  thy  solemn  mysteries. 

There  are  the  hopes  that,  one  by  one, 
Died  even  as  we  gave  them  birth  ; 

The  dreams  that  passed  ere  well  begun, 
Too  dear,  too  beautiful  for  earth. 

The  aspirations,  strong  of  wing, 

Aiming  at  heights  we  could  not  reach  ; 

The  songs  we  tried  in  vain  to  sing ; 

The  thoughts  too  vast  for  human  speech ; 

Thou  hast  them  all,  Hereafter  !     Thou 
Shalt  keep  them  safely  till  that  hour 

When,  with  God's  seal  on  heart  and  brow, 
We  claim  them  in  immortal  power ! 


MAUD  AND   MADGE. 


45 


MAUD    AND    MADGE. 

MAUD  in  a  crimson  velvet  chair 

Strings  her  pearls  on  a  silken  thread, 
While,  lovingly  lifting  her  golden  hair, 

Soft  airs  wander  about  her  head. 
She  has  silken  robes  of  the  softest  flow, 

She  has  jewels  rare  and  a  chain  of  gold, 
And  her  two  white  hands  flit  to  and  fro, 

Fair  as  the  dainty  toys  they  hold. 

She  has  tropical  birds  and  rare  perfumes ; 

Pictures  that  speak  to  the  heart  and  eye; 
For  her  each  flower  of  the  Orient  blooms, — 

For  her  the  song  and  the  lute  swell  high ; 
But  daintily  stringing  her  gleaming  pearls 

She  dreams  to-day  in  her  velvet  chair, 
While  the  sunlight  sleeps  in  her  golden  curls, 

Lightly  stirred  by  the  odorous  air. 

Down  on  the  beach,  when  the  tide  goes  out, 

Madge  is  gathering  shining  shells ; 
The  sea-breeze  blows  her  locks  about ; 

O'er  bare  brown  feet  the  white  sand  swells. 
Coarsest  serge  is  her  gown  of  gray, 

Faded  and  torn  her  apron  blue, 
And  there  in  the  beautiful,  dying  day 

The  girl  still  thinks  of  the  work  to  do. 


46  MAUD  AND  MADGE. 

Stains  of  labor  are  on  her  hands, 

Lost  is  the  young  form's  airy  grace; 
And  standing  there  on  the  shining  sands 

You  read  her  fate  in  her  weary  face. 
Up  with  the  dawn  to  toil  all  day 

For  meagre  fare  and  a  place  to  sleep ; 
Seldom  a  moment  to  dream  or  play, 

Little  leisure  to  laugh  or  weep. 

Beautiful  Maud,  you  think,  maybe, 

Lying  back  in  your  velvet  chair, 
There  is  naught  in  common  'twixt  her  and  thee,- 

You  scarce  could  breathe  in  the  self-same  air. 
But  ah  !  the  blood  in  her  girlish  heart 

Leaps  quick  as  yours  at  her  nature's  call, 
And  ye,  though  moving  so  far  apart, 

Must  share  one  destiny  after  all. 

Love  shall  come  to  you  both  one  day, 

For  still  must  be  what  aye  hath  been ; 
And  under  satin  or  russet  gray 

Hearts  will  open  to  let  him  in. 
Motherhood  with  its  joy  and  woe 

Each  must  compass  through  burning  pain, — 
You,  fair  Maud,  with  your  brow  of  snow, 

Madge  with  her  brown  hands  labor-stained. 

Each  shall  sorrow  and  each  shall  weep, 

Though  one  is  in  hovel,  one  in  hall ; 
Over  your  gold  the  frost  shall  creep, 

As  over  her  jet  the  snows  will  fall. 
Exquisite  Maud,  you  lift  your  eyes 

At  Madge  out  yonder  under  the  sun ; 
And  yet,  I  trow,  by  the  countless  ties 

Of  a  common  womanhood  ye  are  one. 


THE  BELL    OF  ST.  PAUL'S. 


47 


THE   BELL   OF   ST.    PAUL'S. 

Like  the  great  bell  of  St.  Paul's,  which  only  sounds  when  the 
King  is  dead." 

TOLL  !  toll,  thou  solemn  bell ! 

A  royal  head  lies  low, 
And  mourners  through  the  palace  halls 

Slowly  and  sadly  go. 
Lift  up  thine  awful  voice, 

Thou,  silent  for  so  long  ! 
Say  that  a  monarch's  soul  has  passed 

To  join  the  shadowy  throng. 

Sound  yet  again,  thou  bell ! 

Mutely  thine  iron  tongue, 
Prisoned  within  yon  high  church-tower, 

For  many  a  year  has  hung. 
Now,  while  thy  mournful  peal 

Startles  a  nation's  ear, 
The  echo  rings  from  shore  to  shore, 

That  the  whole  world  may  hear. 

A  whisper  from  the  past 

Blends  with  each  solemn  tone 

That  from  those  brazen  lips  of  thine 
Upon  the  air  is  thrown. 

Never  had  trumpet's  peal, 

Or  "clarion  wild  and  shrill," 


48  THE   BELL    OF  ST.  PAUL'S. 

Such  power  as  that  low  undertone 
The  listener's  heart  to  thrill. 

Come,  tell  us  tales,  thou  bell, 

Of  those  of  old  renown, 
Those  sturdy  warrior  kings  who  fought 

For  sceptre  and  for  crown ! 
Tell  of  the  Lion-heart 

Whose  pulses  moved  the  world ; 
Of  her  whose  banners  flew  so  far 

O'er  land  and  sea  unfurled  ! 

From  out  the  buried  years — 

From  many  a  royal  tomb, 
Whence  neither  pomp  nor  power  could  chase 

The  dim,  sepulchral  gloom, 
Lo  !  now  a  pale,  proud  line, 

They  glide  before  our  eyes  ! — 
Art  thou  a  wizard,  mighty  bell, 

To  bid  the  dead  arise  ? 

Toll  on  !  toll  on,  thou  bell ! 

Once  more  lift  up  thy  voice, 
Though  never  yet  did  peal  of  thine 

Bid  human  hearts  rejoice  ! 
Solemn  and  stern  thou  art, 

In  silence  and  in  pride, 
Ne'er  lifting  up  thy  thunder  tones 

Save  when  a  king  has  died. 

Yet  they  to  whom  a  world 

Has  bowed  in  reverence, 
And  on  their  graves  poured  gushing  tears 

Of  voiceless  eloquence, — 


LENORA. 

Kings  in  the  realm  of  mind, 

Princes  in  that  of  thought, 
Who  for  themselves,  by  word  and  deed, 

Immortal  names  have  wrought, — 

Have  to  the  dust  gone  down, 

And  thou,  O  haughty  bell, 
For  these — old  England's  kingliest  sons — 

Tolled  no  funereal  knell ! 
Ah  !  happier  far  than  thou 

In  all  thy  silent  pride, 
The  humblest  village  bell  that  rings 

For  bridegroom  and  for'  bride ; 
That  calls  the  babe  to  baptism, 

The  weary  soul  to  prayer, 
And  tolls  when  loved  ones  spring  from  earth 

To  heaven's  serener  air ! 


49 


LENORA. 

I  KISSED  thy  child  last  night,  Lenora, 

And  in  kissing  her,  kissed  thee, 
Though  between  our  hearts,  Lenora, 

Rolls  a  darkly  silent  sea, 
.  Though  between  our  lips,  Lenora, 
Damp  and  chill  the  veil  may  be  ! 

Yet  the  kiss  I  left,  Lenora, 

On  the  sweet  lips  of  thy  child, 

Thrilled  through  all  my  frame,  Lenora, 
Made  my  heart  beat  quick  and  wild, 
5 


50  HYMN  TO  LIFE. 

Brought  my  boyhood  back,  Lenora, 
For  I  saw  thee  when  she  smiled  ! 


And  did  not  thy  breast,  Lenora, 
Heave  beneath  its  snowy  shroud, 

When  I  clasped  thy  child,  Lenora, 
And  my  lips  to  hers  were  bowed, 

While  with  passionate  prayer,  Lenora, 
Thy  sweet  name  I  called  aloud  ? 

No  one  answered  me,  Lenora ! 

Only  those  pure,  wondering  eyes 
Gazed  upon  mine  own,  Lenora, 

With  a  look  of  grieved  surprise, 
As  an  angel  might,  Lenora, 

On  a  mortal's  tears  and  sighs  ! 


HYMN  TO   LIFE. 

AH,  Life,  dear  Life,  how  beautiful  art  thou ! 
All  day  sweet,  chiming  voices  in  my  heart 
Have  hymned  thy  praises  joyfully  as  now, 
Telling  how  fair  thou  art ! 

This  morn,  while  yet  the  dew  was  on  the  flowers, 

They  sang  like  skylarks,  soaring  while  they  sing; 
This  noon,  like  birds  within  their  leafy  bowers, 
Warbling  with  folded  wing. 


HYMN  TO  LIFE.  5; 

Slow  fades  the  twilight  from  the  glowing  west, 

And  one  pale  star  hangs  o'er  yon  mountain's  brow; 
With  deeper  joy,  that  may  not  be  repressed, 
O  Life,  they  hail  thee  now ! 

And  not  alone  from  this  poor  heart  of  mine 

Do  these  glad  notes  of  grateful  love  ascend ; 
Voices  from  mount  and  vale  and  woodland  shrine 
In  the  full  chorus  blend. 

The  young  leaves  feel  thy  presence  and  rejoice 

The  while  they  frolic  with  the  wanton  breeze; 
And  paeans  sweeter  than  a  seraph's  voice 
Rise  from  the  swaying  trees. 

Each  flower  that  hides  within  the  forest  dim, 
Where  mortal  eye  may  ne'er  its  beauty  see, 
Waves  its  light  censer,  while  it  breathes  a  hymn 
In  humble  praise  of  thee. 

Through  quivering  pines  the  gentle  south  winds  stray, 

Singing  low  songs  that  bid  the  tear-drops  start ; 
And  thoughts  of  thee  are  in  each  trembling  lay, 
Thrilling  the  listener's  heart. 

Old  Ocean  lifts  his  solemn  voice  on  high, 
Thy  name,  O  Life,  repeating  evermore, 
While  sweeping  gales  and  rushing  storms  reply 
From  many  a  far-off  shore. 

The  stars  are  gathering  in  the  darkening  skies, 
But  our  dull  ears  their  music  may  not  hear, 
Though,  while  we  list,  their  swelling  anthems  rise 
Exultingly  and  clear! 


2  A   DEAD   LOVE. 

Linger  thou  with  me  yet  a  little  while ! 

Ah !  leave  me  not  until  my  work  is  done ! 
Take  not  from  me  the  glory  of  thy  smile 
Till  I  the  goal  have  won ! 

Earth  is  so  beautiful !     She  weareth  still 

The  golden  radiance  of  life's  early  day; 
Still  Love  and  Hope  for  me  their  chalice  fill, 
Oh,  turn  not  thou  away ! 

A  deep  voice  answers  to  my  earnest  prayer ; 

Through  every  fibre  of  my  frame  it  thrills; 
A  wondrous  presence  all  the  trembling  air 
With  solemn  glory  fills ! 

Not  thine,  O  Life !     One  mightier  far  than  thou — 
He  who  ordained  the  path  that  thou  hast  trod — 
Says  to  my  soul,  while  thus  I  humbly  bow, 
"Be  still— for  I  am  God!" 


A   DEAD  LOVE. 

IT  is  dead, 

Waiting  here  for  its  narrow  bed  ! 
Bring  ye  the  face-cloth  snowy  white, 

Over  the  forehead  its  chill  folds  lay; 
Never  again  shall  it  meet  my  sight 

Till  it  rises  up  at  the  judgment-day ! 

Lay  it  low, 
Under  the  sods  where  the  violets  grow ! 


A    DEAD   LOVE. 

Hide  it  away  in  the  darksome  earth, 
This  pale  clay  that  was  once  so  dear; 

Yesterday  of  such  priceless  worth, — 
What  is  it  worth  now — lying  here? 

Dumb  and  cold, 

No  soul  sleeps  in  the  marble  mould ! 
Yet,  for  the  sake  of  what  hath  been, 

Smooth  ye  its  grave  with  reverent  care; 
Speak  no  word  of  its  pain  or  sin, 

While  o'er  the  dead  I  breathe  a  prayer. 

Will  it  rise, 

Haunting  me  with  its  solemn  eyes? 
Will  it  come  when  the  night  grows  deep, 

Troubling  me  in  my  silent  room? 
With  it  shall  I  dread  vigils  keep — 

It  and  my  soul  in  the  awful  gloom? 

No!  ah,  no! 

Soul  of  mine,  it  shall  not  be  so! 
Dead  and  buried,  I  roll  a  stone 

Unto  the  door  of  the  sepulchre.     There 
Rest,  O  sleeper,  whose  cry  or  moan 

Never  again  shall  vex  the  air ! 


5* 


53 


54 


FAITH. 


FAITH. 

THE  young  child  trembles  at  the  brooding  darks, 
And  shrinks,  and  cowers,  and  dare  not  lift  its  eyes, 
Lest  it  should  see  some  awful  form  arise, 

And  for  some  dread  alarm  it  ever  harks. 

Yet  if  it  may  but  touch  its  father's  hands, 
It  bravely  walks  along  the  darksome  way, 
Fearing  the  night  no  more  than  broadest  day 

While  close  beside  that  faithful  friend  it  stands. 

So  when  the  path  grows  dark  that  I  must  tread ; 
When  my  poor  soul  sees  not  which  way  to  go, 
And  may  not  life's  mysterious  windings  know, 

Clasping  my  Father's  hand  I  will  not  dread 
The  gathering  shadows,  but  in  deepest  night 
Walk  calmly  on,  "by  faith,"  if  not  "by  sight." 


HYMN, 

FOR  THE  OPENING  OF  A  REFORM  SCHOOL. 

FLOATING  through  the  misty  twilight 

Of  the  half- forgotten  years, 
Hark !  a  solemn  voice  and  tender 

Falls  to-day  upon  our  ears.  ;» .  v 


HYMN. 

Thine,  O  Christ !  and  as  we  listen, 

Lo  !  thy  loving  face  we  see, 
And  thy  lips  are  still  repeating, 

' '  Feed  my  lambs,  if  ye  love  me ! " 

1 '  Feed  my  lambs ! ' '     Our  Lord  and  Master, 

We  are  here  thy  will  to  do; 
Far  the  wayward  ones  have  wandered ; 

We  will  find  them  pastures  new. 

From  the  mountains,  cold  and  dreary, — 
From  the  forests,  dark  and  deep, — 

Where  the  way  is  long  and  lonely, 
And  the  paths  are  rough  and  steep, — 

We  will  call  them.     Yet  our  voices 

It  may  be  they  will  not  know ; 
THOU  must  speak,  O  tender  Shepherd, 

Speak  in  accents  soft  and  low ! 

They  are  thine,  however  widely 

They  have  wandered  from  thy  side; 

When  thou  callest  they  will  answer; 
Son  of  God,  be  thou  their  guide ! 


.55 


56  MARGERY  GREY. 


MARGERY  GREY. 

A    LEGEND    OF    VERMONT. 

FAIR  the   cabin-walls  were  gleaming  in   the   sunbeams' 

golden  glow 

On  that  lovely  April  morning,  near  a  hundred  years  ago ; 
And  upon  the  humble  threshold  stood  the  young  wife, 

Margery  Grey, 
With  her  fearless  blue  eyes  glancing  down  the  lonely  forest 

way. 

In  her  arms  her  laughing  baby  with  its  father's  dark  hair 

played, 
As  he  lingered  there  beside  them  leaning  on  his  trusty 

spade ; 
"I  am  going  to  the  wheat-lot,"  with  a  smile  said  Robert 

Grey; 
"Will  you  be  too  lonely,  Margery,  if  I  leave  you  all  the 

day?" 

Then  she  smiled  a  cheerful  answer,  ere  she  spoke  a  single 

word, 
And  the  tone  of  her  replying  was  as  sweet  as  song  of 

bird; 
"No,"  she  said,  "I'll  take  the  baby,  and  go  stay  with 

Annie  Brown ; 
You  must  meet  us  there,  dear  Robert,  ere  the  sun  has  quite 

gone  down." 


MARGERY  GREY. 


57 


Thus  they  parted.     Strong  and  sturdy  all  day  long  he 

labored  on, 
Spading  up  the  fertile   acres  from   the  stubborn   forest 

won; 
And  when  lengthening  shadows  warned  him  that  the  sun 

was  in  the  west, 
Down  the  woodland  aisles  he  hastened,  whispering,  "Now 

for  home  and  rest ! ' ' 

But  when  he  had  reached  the  clearing  of  their  friend,  a 
mile  away, 

Neither  wife  nor  child  was  waiting  there  to  welcome 
Robert  Grey. 

"She  is  safe  at  horre,"  said  Annie,  "for  she  went  an 
hour  ago, 

While  the  woods  we're  still  illumined  by  the  sunset's  crim 
son  glow." 

Back  he  sped,  but  night  was  falling,  and  the  path  he 
scarce  could  see; 

Here  and  there  his  feet  were  guided  onward  by  some  deep- 
gashed  tree; 

When  at  length  he  gained  the  cabin,  black  and  desolate 
it  stood, 

Cold  the  hearth,  the  windows  rayless,  in  the  stillest  soli 
tude. 

With  a  murmured  prayer,  a  shudder,  and  a  sob  of  anguish 

wild, 
Back  he  darted  through  the  forest,  calling  on  his  wife  and 

child. 
Soon  the  scattered  settlers  gathered  from  the  clearings  far 

and  near, 
And  the  solemn  woods  resounded  with  their  voices  rising 

clear. 


58  MARGERY  GREY. 

Torches  flared,  and  fires  were  kindled,  and  the  horn's 
long  peal  rang  out, 

While  the  startled  echoes  answered  to  the  hardy  wood 
man's  shout; 

But  in  vain  their  sad  endeavor,  night  by  night,  and  day 
by  day ; 

For  no  sign  nor  token  found  they  of  the  child  or  Margery 
Grey! 

Woe!  woe  for  pretty  Margery!     With  her  baby  on  her 

arm 
On  her  homeward  way  she  started,  fearing  nothing  that 

could  harm; 
With  a  lip  and  brow  untroubled,  and  a  heart  in  utter 

rest, 
Through  the  dim  woods  she  went  singing  to  the  darling 

at  her  breast. 

But  in  sudden  terror  pausing,  gazed  she  round  in  blank 

dismay, — 
Where  were  all  the  white-scarred  hemlocks  pointing  out 

the  lonely  way? 
God  of  Mercies !     She  had  wandered  from  the  pathway ! 

not  a  tree, 
Giving  mute   but   kindly  warning,   could   her   straining 

vision  see! 

Twilight  deepened  into  darkness,  and  the  stars  came  out 

on  high; 

All  was  silent  in  the  forest,  save  the  owl's  low,  boding  cry; 
Round  about  her  in  the  midnight  stealthy  shadows  softly 

crept, 
And  the  babe  upon  her  bosom  closed  its  timid  eyes  and 

slept. 


MARGERY  GREY. 


59 


Hark !  a  shout !  and  in  the  distance  she  could  see  a  torch's 

gleam; 
But,  alas !  she  could  not  reach  it,  and  it  vanished  like  a 

dream ; 
Then   another    shout, — another!    but  she   shrieked   and 

sobbed  in  vain, 
Rushing  wildly  toward  the  presence  she  could  never,  never 

gain. 

Morning  came,  and  with  the  sunbeams  hope  and  courage 

rose  once  more; 
Surely  ere  another  nightfall  her  long  wanderings  would 

be  o'er; 
So  she  soothed  the  wailing  baby,  and  when  faint  from 

want  of  food, 
Ate  the  wintergreens  and  acorns  that  she  found  within  the 

wood. 

O  the  days  so  long  and  dreary !    O  the  nights  more  dreary 

still ! 
More  than  once  she  heard  the  sounding  of  the  horn  from 

hill  to  hill; 
More  than  once  a  smouldering  fire  in  some  sheltered  nook 

she  found, 
And  she  knew  her  husband's  footprints  close  beside  it  on 

the  ground. 

Dawned  the  fourth  relentless  morning,  and  the  sun's  un- 

pitying  eye 
Looked  upon  the  haggard  mother,  looked  to  see  the  baby 

die; 
All  day  long  its  plaintive  meanings  wrung  the  heart  of 

Margery  Grey, 
All  night  long  her  bosom  cradled  it,  a  pallid  thing  of 

clay. 


60  MARGERY  GREY. 

Three  days  more  she  bore  it  with  her,  on  her  rough  and 
toilsome  way, 

Till  across  its  marble  beauty  stole  the  plague-spot  of  de 
cay; 

Then  she  knew  that  she  must  leave  it  in  the  wilderness  to 
sleep, 

Where  the  prowling  wild  beasts  only  watch  above  its  grave 
should  keep. 

Dumb  with  grief  she  sat  beside  it.  Ah !  how  long  she 
never  knew ! 

Were  the  tales  her  mother  taught  her  of  the  dear  All- 
Father  true, 

When  the  skies  were  brass  above  her,  and  the  earth  was 
cold  and  dim, 

And  when  all  her  tears  and  pleadings  brought  no  answer 
down  from  Him? 

But  at  last  stern  Life,  the  tyrant,  bade  her  take  her  burden 

up,— 
To  her  lips  so  pale  and  shrunken  pressed  again  the  bitter 

cup; 
Up  she  rose,  still  tramping  onward  through  the  forest  far 

and  wide, 
Till  the  May-flowers  bloomed  and  perished,  and  the  sweet 

June  roses  died ! 

Till  July  and  August  brought  her  fruits  and  berries  from 

their  store; 
Till  the  golden-rod  and  aster  said  that  summer  was  no 

more; 
Till  the  maples  and  the  birches  donned  their  robes  of  red 

and  gold ; 
Till  the  birds  were  hasting  southward,  and  the  days  were 

growing  cold. 


MARGERY  GREY.  6 1 

Was  she  doomed  to  roam  forever  o'er  the  desolated 
earth, 

She,  the  last  and  only  being  in  those  wilds  of  human 
birth  ? 

Sometimes  from  her  dreary  pathway  wolf  or  black  bear 
turned  away, 

But  not  once  did  human  presence  bless  the  sight  of  Mar 
gery  Grey. 

One  chill  morning  in  October,   when  the  woods  were 

brown  and  bare, 
Through  the  streets  of  ancient  Charlestown,  with  a  strange, 

bewildered  air, 
Walked  a  gaunt   and   pallid   woman,  whose   disheveled 

locks  of  brown 
O'er  her  naked  breast  and  shoulders  in  the  wind  were 

streaming  down. 


Wondering  glances  fell  upon  her;  women  veiled  their 
modest  eyes, 

Ere  they  slowly  ventured  near  her,  drawn  by  pitying  sur 
prise. 

"'Tis  some  crazy  one,"  they  whispered.  Back  her  tan 
gled  hair  she  tossed, 

"O  kind  hearts,  .take  pity  on  me,  for  I  am  not  mad,  but 
lost!" 


Then  she  told  her  piteous  story,   in  a  vague,  disjointed 

way, 
And  with  cold  white  lips  she  murmured,  "Take  me  home 

to  Robert  Grey!" 

6 


62  MY  FRIENDS. 

"But  the  river?"  said  they,  pondering.    "  We  are  on  the 

eastern  side; 
How  crossed  you  its  rapid  waters?     Deep  the  channel  is, 

and  wide." 

But  she  said  she  had  not  crossed  it.  In  her  strange, 
erratic  course, 

She  had  wandered  far  to  northward,  till  she  reached  its 
fountain  source 

In  the  dark  Canadian  forests, — and  then,  blindly  roam 
ing  on, 

Down  the  wild  New  Hampshire  valleys  her  bewildered 
feet  had  gone. 

O  the  joy-bells !  sweet  their  ringing  on  the  frosty  autumn 

air! 
O  the  boats  across  the  waters !  how  they  leaped  the  tale  to 

bear! 

O  the  wondrous  golden  sunset  of  the  blest  October  day 
When  that  weary  wife  was  folded  to  the  heart  of  Robert 

Grey! 


MY   FRIENDS. 

I'VE  no  great  nor  titled  friends — 

Lords  nor  dames  of  high  degree ; 
Grandeur  ne'er  my  steps  attends, 

Rank  nor  glory  compass  me. 
Throwing  wide  my  garden's  gate, 

Courtiers  ne'er  its  paths  explore; 
And  no  liveried  footmen  wait 

At  my  humble  cottage-door. 


MY  FRIENDS.  63 

Yet  at  pensive  eventide, 

When  the  day's  long  toil  is  past, 
And  from  wanderings  far  and  wide 

Thought  comes  home  to  rest  at  last ; 
When  the  firelight,  leaping  high, 

Brightens  all  the  quiet  room, 
And  the  startled  shadows  fly, 

Bearing  off  the  dusky  gloom: 

Then — a  brave  and  noble  band — 

Over  mount  and  over  sea, 
And  from  out  the  "summer-land," 

Come  my  friends  to  sit  with  me. 
Heads  with  bay-wreaths  greenly  crowned ; 

Hands  that  clasp  the  victor's  palm; 
Presences  that  all  around 

Shed  a  most  unearthly  calm : 

Chaucer,  wearing  on  his  face 

All  the  freshness  of  the  morn ; 
Dreamy  Spenser,  whose  rare  grace 

Far  in  faerie-land  was  born ; 
Milton,  grand,  majestic,  blind, 

Yet  seeing  God  by  inner  sight ; 
Shakspeare,  in  the  realm  of  mind 

Crowned  king  by  kingly  right ; 

Dante,  with  uplifted  brow, 

And  a  sadly  royal  mien ; 
Camoens  praising,  soft  and  low, 

' '  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen ; ' ' 
Keats,  to  whom  the  springtime  brought 

All  the  glory  of  the  year, 
And  whose  dying  strains  were  caught 

By  the  angels  listening  near; 


MY  FRIENDS. 

Wordsworth,  in  serenest  calm, 

Holding  converse  with  the  skies ; 
Cowper,  singing  some  low  psalm, 

Set  to  human  harmonies; 
Byron,  still  forlornly  proud, 

In  his  desolate  disdain ; 
Shelley,  dreaming  of  his  shroud, 

By  the  blue  Italian  main, — 

These — and  others.     Ah !  the  place 

Seems  a  temple  grand  and  fair, 
To  whose  lofty,  vaulted  space 

Priest  and  priestess  still  repair ! 
Sappho  with  her  golden  lyre, 

Crowned  Corinna's  kindling  cheek, 
Pale  Aspasia's  eye  of  fire, 

Saintly  Heloise,  strong,  yet  meek, 

Hemans,  breathing  changeful  strains, 

Half  of  joy,  and  half  of  woe ; 
L.  E.  L.,  whose  song  contains 

Just  a  fond  heart's  overflow; 
Our  own  Margaret's  lifted  face, 

Wearing  still  its  queenly  dower; 
Sorrowing  Bronte's  quiet  grace, 

Veiling  such  transcendent  power. 

Ah,  another! — priestess,  seer, 

Bay-wreathed  poet,  three  in  one, — 
Star-crowned  angel,  singing  clear, 

Where  there  is  no  need  of  sun, — 
Thou  whose  Florence  mourns  thee  still 

Less  as  woman  than  as  saint, — 
Whose  Aurora's  voice  can  thrill 

With  new  life  hearts  long  a-faint, — 


THE  PINE-TREES. 

Need  I  name  thee  ?  O  beloved ! 

Friends  of  mine,  through  good  or  ill; 
Others  fail  me — ye  are  proved — 

Time  nor  change  your  hearts  can  chill ! 
Ye  who  being  dead  yet  speak, 

Ye  afar  and  yet  most  near; 
Let  your  words  the  silence  break, 

And  my  soul  runs  quick  to  hear ! 


THE   PINE-TREES. 

O  SOLEMN  pines,  now  dark  and  still, 
When  last  I  stood  beneath  your  shade, 

Strange  minstrels  on  their  airy  harps 
Among  your  trembling  branches  played. 

That  wild,  weird  music !  now  the  strain 
Gushed  forth  triumphantly  a.nd  clear, — 

Now  like  a  living  voice  it  seemed, 
Wailing  and  moaning  in  my  ear ! 

Beneath  my  feet  the  village  lay 

As  calmly  as  a  child  asleep, 
While,  like  stern  guards,  the  mountains  round 

Seemed  o'er  its  rest  close  watch  to  keep. 

Like  burnished  gold,  the  high  church-spire 
In  the  last  red  light  of  sunset  gleamed; 

And  from  each  far-off  window-pane 
A  flood  of  dazzling  radiance  streamed. 


66  THE   1'INE-TREES. 

And  softly,  emerald  banks  between, 

The  river  glided  on  its  way, 
Nor  paused  where  cedars  darkly  wave, 

Nor  loitered  where  the  mill-wheels  play. 

The  western  skies  were  all  aflame, — 
A  rosy  mist  hung  o'er  the  hills, — 

And  leaping  down  the  mountain-side, 
Sparkled  and  flashed  the  murmuring  rills. 

'Twas  a  fair  scene,  and  while  I  gazed, 
The  cloudlets  donned  a  soberer  hue, 

And  suddenly  a  single  star 

Shone  tremblingly  amid  the  blue. 

And  I,  a  glad,  light-hearted  girl, 
Beneath  your  shade,  O  stately  trees, 

Bared  my  young  brow  and  waving  hair 
To  meet  the  kisses  of  the  breeze. 


Again,  as  in  the  long  ago, 

The  pine  boughs  wave  above  my  head, 
But,  ah !  the  light  and  loveliness 

And  glory  of  the  scene  have  fled ! 

The  sky  is  now  a  leaden  gray ; 

The  stream  an  icy  chain  hath  bound ; 
And  here  and  there  a  snow-wreath  lies 

Upon  the  dark  and  frozen  ground. 

The  winds  are  out — the  shivering  trees 
Lift  their  bare  branches  high  in  air, 

And  wildly  toss  their  arms  aloft, 
Like  giants  writhing  in  despair ! 


NOVEMBER.  67 

Afar  yet  near  the  church-yard  lies; 

No  clustering  leaves  conceal  it  now; 
Through  blinding  tears  new  mounds  I  see, 

New  graves  where  I  in  prayer  must  bow. 

But  not  to  grieve  o'er  buried  hours 
Sought  I  your  shade  to-day,  ye  pines, 

Though  many  a  bright  and  fadeless  wreath 
Fond  memory  round  each  crest  entwines. 

For,  even  while  with  murmuring  lips 

Ye  whisper  of  the  past  to  me, 
A  quiet  home  'mid  clustering  trees, 

As  in  a  vision,  I  can  see, — 

A  home  where  childhood's  merry  laugh 
Blends  with  the  song  of  bird  and  bee, 

Where  my  heart  finds  serenest  rest, 
Where  love-lit  eyes  now  watch  for  me ! 


NOVEMBER. 

FIE  upon  thee,  November !  thou  dost  ape 

The  airs  of  thy  young  sisters; — thou  hast  stolen 

The  witching  smile  of  May  to  grace  thy  lip, 

And  April's  rare,  capricious  loveliness 

Thou  'rt  trying  to  put  on !     Dost  thou  not  know 

Such  freaks  do  not  become  thee?     Thou  shouldst  be 

A  staid  and  sober  matron,  quietly 

Laying  aside  the  follies  of  thy  youth, 


68  HILDA,  SPINNING. 

And  robing  thee  in  that  calm  dignity 
Meet  for  the  handmaid  of  the  dying  year. 
But,  ah !  thou  art  a  sad  coquette,  although 
The  frost  of  age  is  on  thee !     Thou  dost  sport 
With  every  idle  breeze  that  wooeth  thee; 
And  toy  and  frolic  with  the  aged  leaves 
That  flutter  round  thee.     Unto  every  low, 
Soft  murmur  of  the  brooklet,  thou  dost  lend 
A  willing  ear;  and  crowning  thy  pale  brow 
With  a  bright  coronet  that  thou  hast  woven 
Of  the  stray  sunbeams  summer  left  behind, 
Thou  dost  bend  o'er  it  lovingly,  and  strive 
To  answer  in  a  cadence  clear  and  sweet 
As  spring's  first  whispers !     In  the  valley  now 
The  flowers  have  faded,  and  the  singing-birds 
Greet  thee  no  longer  when  thou  wanderest  forth 
Through  the  dim  forest;  and  yet  thou  dost  smile, 
And  skip  as  lightly  o'er  the  withered  grass, 
As  if  thou  hadst  not  decked  thee  in  the  robes 
That  thy  dead  sisters  wore  in  festal  hours ! 


HILDA,    SPINNING. 

SPINNING,  spinning,  by  the  sea, 

All  the  night ! 

On  a  stormy,  rock-ribbed  shore, 
Where  the  north  winds  downward  pour, 
And  the  tempests  fiercely  sweep 
From  the  mountains  to  the  deep, 
Hilda  spins  beside  the  sea, 

All  the  night ! 


HILDA,  SPINNING.  69 

Spinning,  at  her  lonely  window, 

By  the  sea ! 

With  her  candle  burning  clear, 
Every  night  of  all  the  year, 
And  her  sweet  voice  crooning  low, 
Quaint  old  songs  of  love  and  woe, 
Spins  she  at  her  lonely  window, 

By  the  sea. 

On  a  bitter  night  in  March, 

Long  ago, 

Hilda,  very  young  and  fair, 
With  a  crown  of  golden  hair, 
Watched  the  tempest  raging  wild, 
Watched  the  roaring  sea — and  smiled 
Through  that  woeful  night  in  March, 

Long  ago  ! 

What  though  all  the  winds  were  out 

In  their  might  ? 

Richard's  boat  was  tried  and  true  ; 
Stanch  and  brave  his  hardy  crew ; 
Strongest  he  to  do  or  dare. 
Said  she,  breathing  forth  a  prayer, 
"  He  is  safe,  though  winds  are  out 

In  their  might !" 

But  at  length  the  morning  dawned, 

Still  and  clear; 
Calm,  in  azure  splendor,  lay 
All  the  waters  of  the  bay ; 
And  the  ocean's  angry  moans 
Sank  to  solemn  undertones, 
As,  at  last,  the  morning  dawned, 

Still  and  clear ! 


70  HILDA,  SPINNING. 

With  her  waves  of  golden  hair 

Floating  free, 
Hilda  ran  along  the  shore, 
Gazing  off  the  waters  o'er; 
And  the  fishermen  replied, 
"  He  will  come  in  with  the  tide," 
As  they  saw  her  golden  hair 

Floating  free  ! 

Ah  !  he  came  in  with  the  tide, — 

Came  alone ! 

Tossed  upon  the  shining  sands — 
Ghastly  face  and  clutching  hands — 
Seaweed  tangled  in  his  hair — 
Bruised  and  torn  his  forehead  fair — 
Thus  he  came  in  with  the  tide, 

All  alone ! 

Hilda  watched  beside  her  dead, 

Day  and  night. 
Of  those  hours  of  mortal  woe 
Human  ken  may  never  know; 
She  was  silent,  and  his  ear 
Kept  the  secret,  close  and  dear, 
Of  her  watch  beside  her  dead, 

Day  and  night ! 

What  she  promised  in  the  darkness, 

Who  can  tell  ? 

But  upon  that  rock-ribbed  shore 
Burns  a  beacon  evermore  ! 
And  beside  it,  all  the  night, 
Hilda  guards  the  lonely  light, 
Though  what  vowed  she  in  the  darkness, 

None  may  tell ! 


OUTGROWN.  71 

Spinning,  spinning  by  the  sea, 

All  the  night ! 

While  her  candle,  gleaming  wide 
O'er  the  restless,  rolling  tide, 
Guides  with  steady,  changeless  ray 
The  lone  fisher  up  the  bay, 
Hilda  spins  beside  the  sea, 

Through  the  night ! 

Fifty  years  of  patient  spinning 

By  the  sea ! 

Old  and  worn,  she  sleeps  to-day, 
While  the  sunshine  gilds  the  bay; 
But  her  candle,  shining  clear, 
Every  night  of  all  the  year, 
Still  is  telling  of  her  spinning 

By  the  sea ! 


OUTGROWN. 

NAY,  you  wrong  her,  my  friend,  she's  not  fickle ;  her  love 

she  has  simply  outgrown  ; 
One  can  read  the  whole  matter,  translating  her  heart  by 

the  light  of  one's  own. 

Can  you  bear  me  to  talk  with  you  frankly?    There  is  much 

that  my  heart  would  say, 
And  you  know  we  were  children  together,  have  quarreled 

and  ' '  made  up' '  in  play. 


7  2  OUTGROWN. 

And  so,  for  the  sake  of  old  friendship,  I  venture  to  tell  you 

the  truth, 
As  plainly,  perhaps,  and  as  bluntly,  as  I  might  in  our 

earlier  youth. 

Five  summers  ago,  when  you  wooed  her,  you  stood  on  the 

self-same  plane, 
Face  to  face,  heart  to  heart,  never  dreaming  your  souls 

could  be  parted  again. 

She  loved  you  at  that  time  entirely,  in  the  bloom  of  her 

life's  early  May, 
And  it  is  not  her  fault,  I  repeat  it,  that  she  does  not  love 

you  to-day. 

Nature  never  stands  still,  nor  souls  either.     They  ever  go 

up  or  go  down  ; 
And  hers  has  been  steadily  soaring, — but  how  has  it  been 

with  your  own  ? 

She  has  struggled,  and  yearned,  and  aspired, — grown  purer 
and  wiser  each  year; 

The  stars  are  not  farther  above  you,  in  yon  luminous  at 
mosphere  ! 

For  she  whom  you  crowned  with  fresh  roses,  down  yonder, 
five  summers  ago, 

Has  learned  that  the  first  of  our  duties  to  God  and  our 
selves  is  to  grow. 

Her  eyes  they  are  sweeter  and  calmer,  but  their  vision  is 

clearer  as  well ; 
Her  voice  has  a  tenderer  cadence,  but  is  pure  as  a  silver 

bell. 


OUTGROWN. 


73 


Her  face  has  the  look  worn  by  those  who  with  God  and 

his  angels  have  talked  ; 
The  white  robes  she  wears  are  less  white  than  the  spirits 

with  whom  she  has  walked. 

And  you?     Have  you  aimed  at  the  highest?     Have  you, 

too,  aspired  and  prayed  ? 
Have  you  looked  upon  evil  unsullied  ?  have  you  conquered 

it  undismayed  ? 

Have  you,  too,  grown  purer  and  wiser,  as  the  months  and 

the  years  have  rolled  on  ? 
Did  you  meet  her  this  morning  rejoicing  in  the  triumph 

of  victory  won? 

Nay,  hear  me !  The  truth  cannot  harm  you.  When  to 
day  in  her  presence  you  stood, 

Was  the  hand  that  you  gave  her  as  white  and  clean  as  that 
of  her  womanhood? 

Go  measure  yourself  by  her  standard.     Look  back  on  the 

years  that  have  fled; 
Then  ask,  if  you  need,  why  she  tells  you  that  the  love  of 

her  girlhood  is  dead ! 

She  cannot  look  down  to  her  lover;  her  love,  like  her 

soul,  aspires; 
He  must  stand  by  her  side,  or  above  her,  who  would 

kindle  its  holy  fires. 

Now,  farewell !     For  the  sake  of  old  friendship  I  have 

ventured  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
As  plainly,  perhaps,  and  as  bluntly,  as  I  might  in  our 

earlier  youth. 

7 


74 


A   PICTURE. 


A    PICTURE. 

A  LOVELY  bit  of  dappled  green 
Shut  in  the  circling  hills  between, 
While  farther  off  blue  mountains  stand 
Like  giant  guards  on  either  hand. 

The  quiet  road  in  still  repose 
Follows  where'er  the  brooklet  flows; 
And  in  and  out  it  glides  along, 
Lured  by  the  river's  rippling  song. 

Afar,  you  see  the  steepled  town 
From  yonder  hillside  looking  down ; 
And  sometimes,  when  the  south  wind  swells, 
You  hear  the  chiming  of  its  bells. 

But  here,  beneath  embowering  trees, 
Lulled  by  the  hum  of  droning  bees, 
The  old  brown  farmhouse  seems  to  sleep, 
So  calm  its  rest  is  and  so  deep. 

And  there,  beside  the  rustic  bridge, 
From  which  the  path  climbs  yonder  ridge, 
The  lazy  cattle  seek  the  shade 
By  the  umbrageous  willows  made. 

The  sky  is  like  a  hollow  pearl, 
Save  where  warm  sunset  clouds  unfurl 
Their  flaming  colors.     Lo  !  a  star, 
Even  as  we  gaze,  gleams  forth  afar. 


A  PICTURE. 

And  this  is  all  you  see  ?     The  scene 
Lies  fair,  you  say,  these  hills  between  ? 
You'll  bear  the  picture  far  away, 
A  joy  for  many  a  coming  day? 

0  friend,  I  see  far  more  !     I  see 
A  Presence  under  every  tree  ! 

1  meet  the  gleam  of  earnest  eyes 
Where'er  these  feathery  larches  rise. 

Moving  adown  the  winding  road 

I  see  the  form  of  one  who  trod 

Its  light  sands  many  a  year  ago, 

Lured  by  the  brooklet's  murmuring  flow. 

His  living  form.     No  pallid  ghost, 
No  wandering  phantom,  tempest-tossed  ! 
The  grave  has  given  up  its  dead, 
With  no  dark  cerecloth  round  its  head ! 

Crowned  with  immortal  youth  he  stands, 
Reaching  to  me  his  eager  hands ; 
But  yet,  methinks,  a  vague  surprise 
Looks  outward  from  those  searching  eyes. 

They  take  no  note  of  Time  who  dwell 
Where  blooms  the  heavenly  asphodel, — 
They  grow  not  old  who  wander  where 
Life's  perfect  flower  perfumes  the  air. 

But  ah  !  our  years  are  long,  and  I 
Have  kept  count  as  they  floated  by ; 
He  and  the  scene  no  change  have  known, - 
Its  seal  is  stamped  on  me  alone  ! 


75 


THE  PILGRIM. 


THE    PILGRIM. 

'Tis  sweet  to  rest  beneath  the  palm-tree's  shade, 
Beside  the  fountain  murmuring  in  its  flow, 

And  hear  the  rustling  by  the  young  leaves  made, 
As  the  soft  breezes  fan  them  to  and  fro. 

'Tis  sweet  to  bare  my  hot  and  throbbing  brow, 
And  let  the  cool  wind  lift  my  clustering  hair; 

And  while  earth's  twilight  tones  are  hushed  and  low, 
The  vesper  hymn  of  bird  and  flower  to  share. 

Pleasant  to  take  the  sandals  from  my  feet, 
Wayworn  and  weary,  and  with  dust  defiled ; 

And,  idly  lingering  in  dalliance  sweet, 
Toy  with  the  waters  as  a  sportive  child. 

Oh !  rest  is  sweet,  and  sweet  this  brooding  calm, — 
This  silence  holier  than  prayer  or  psalm; 
And  sweet  the  dreams  that  hover  round  me  here, 
Making  the  unattained  seem  strangely  near. 

But  I  must  on,  though  long  the  way  and  dreary, 
Though  heart  grow  faint,  and  brain  and  feet  grow  weary ; 
O'er  scorching  sands,  o'er  trackless  solitudes, 
Where  Danger  lurks,  and  Death  forever  broods. 

For  far  across  the  desert's  sandy  waste 

Lies  the  fair  City  to  whose  walls  I  haste  ; 

And  thitherward  I  press,  my  eager  eyes 

Fixed  on  the  point  where  yet  its  towers  shall  rise, 


A    MOTHER'S  ANSWER. 

Stately  and  beautiful  and  fair  to  see, — 

Fair  as  the  morn  when  night's  dim  shadows  flee  ! 

Not  till  its  myriad  glories  on  me  shine, 

Shall  the  full  right  to  peaceful  rest  be  mine. 


77 


A    MOTHER'S    ANSWER. 

WHICH  do  I  love  best  ?    Question  strange  is  thine  ! 

Dost  ask  a  mother  which  she  loves  the  best, 
Of  the  fair  children  that  a  hand  divine 

In  tender  love  hath  lain  upon  her  breast  ? 

Which  do  I  love  best  ?  When  our  first-born  came, 
And  his  low  wailing  filled  my  darkened  room, 

On  my  soul's  altar  glowed  an  incense  flame, 
And  light  ineffable  dispersed  the  gloom. 

And  since  that  hour,  heart-music  rare  and  sweet 
Hath  floated  through  my  spirit's  inmost  cell ; 

Oft  hath  its  low  peal  given  me  strength  to  meet 
Alike  Care's  thrall,  and  Pleasure's  luring  spell. 

Now — on  my  happy  breast  a  babe  is  nestling, 
With  her  dear  father's  darkly  earnest  eyes, 

And  soft  brown  hair  upon  her  forehead  resting, 
And  rosebud  mouth  that  smiles  in  sweet  surprise. 

Her  very  helplessness  doth  plead  for  love ; 

Yet  of  no  sudden  growth  mine  own  hath  been ; 
Taught  by  an  instinct  springing  from  above, 

The  mother  loves  her  child  although  unseen. 
7* 


78  THE   DREAM-LAND   GRAVE. 

And  ere  her  large,  soft  eyes  had  seen  the  light, 
I  longed  to  clasp  her  to  my  yearning  breast ; 

Ah  !  God's  dear  gifts  make  all  my  pathway  bright, — 
I  cannot  tell  thee  which  I  love  the  best ! 


THE    DREAM-LAND    GRAVE. 

I  DREAMED  last  night  of  a  lonely  grave 

With  the  grass  of  years  o'ergrown, 
Above  it  the  wind  through  the  shuddering  pines 

Swept  with  a  wailing  moan  ; 
A  sluggish  river  rolled  slowly  by 

With  a  slumberous  monotone, 
While  down  from  the  depths  of  the  frowning  sky 

One  quivering  starbeam  shone. 

And  I  dreamed  that  over  that  lonely  grave 

In  dumb  despair  I  hung ; 
No  passionate  prayer,  no  yearning  cry, 

Broke  from  my  trembling  tongue  ; 
But  still  through  the  weary,  dreary  hours 

To  the  desolate  mound  I  clung, 
And  still  in  my  ear,  till  the  morn  was  gray, 

The  sob  of  the  river  rung. 

O  soul  of  mine !    In  that  dream-land  grave 

What  beautiful  hope  lay  dead  ? 
What  dream  of  my  youth  lay  buried  there 

With  the  cerecloth  round  its  head  ? 
What  love  outgrown,  or  forgotten  long, 

Slept  well  in  that  narrow  bed  ? 


FOR  A   SILVER    WEDDING. 

What  memory,  born  of  the  hallowed  past, 
Waked  not  at  the  tears  I  shed  ? 

I  never  may  know !  O  dream-land  grave, 

Thou  keepest  thy  secret  well ! 
From  thy  dim,  mysterious  depths  no  voice 

Comes  forth  thy  tale  to  teH. 
But  still,  in  a  waking  dream,  I  hear 

The  river's  sobbing  swell, 
And  the  wailing  wind  in  the  shuddering  pines 

Sounds  like  a  funeral  knell ! 


79 


FOR    A    SILVER    WEDDING. 

GIVE  us  joy  to-night,  O  friends ! 
Past,  for  us,  the  dewy  freshness 

Of  life's  early  morning  hours  ; 
Past  the  Springtime's  tender  beauty, 
Pale  and  dead  its  first  fair  flowers. 
But  the  Summer's  noonday  glory 

Floods  the  sunny  path  we  tread  ; 
Round  us  still,  from  countless  censers, 
Richest  sweets  are  daily  shed  ! 

Side  by  side — together ! 
Hand  in  hand — together  ! 
Five-and-twenty  years  together 
We  have  faced  life's  changeful  weather,- 
Keeping  step  with  one  another, — 
Bearing  burdens  for  each  other, — 

Give  us  joy 


go  FOR  A   SILVER    WEDDING. 

Give  us  joy  to-night,  O  friends  ! 
By-and-by  will  come  our  Autumn, 

When  the  crimson  leaves  will  fall, 
And  the  birds,  so  lately  tuneful, 

Will  be  silent,  one  and  all. 
But  the  harvest  will  be  garnered, 
And  our  life-work  nearly  done, 
And  with  smiles  upon  our  faces 
We  will  watch  the  setting  sun. 

While  the  shadows  lengthen, 
Love  and  Faith  shall  strengthen, 
And  we'll  sit  and  rest  together 
In  the  lovely  Autumn  weather, — 
Clinging  closer  to  each  other, 
Leaning  still  on  one  another, — 

Give  us  joy ! 

Give  us  joy  again,  O  friends ! 
What  though  night  must  come,  and  Winter 

With  his  breath  congealing  slow  ? 
Stars  will  blossom  in  the  darkness, 
Violets  bloom  beneath  the  snow. 
Five-and-twenty  years,  O  Father, 

Thou  hast  led  us  gently  on ; 
We  can  trust  Thy  tender  guidance 
Till  the  goal  at  last  is  won  ! 

And  when  we  reach  thine  Aidenn, 
No  longer  heavy-laden, 
On  the  Shining  Shore  together, 
Fearing  no  more  stormy  weather, 
We  will  whisper  to  each  other, 
Clinging  still  to  one  another, 

All  is  joy!" 


EARTH  TO  EARTH."  gi 


"EARTH   TO   EARTH." 

NOT  within  yon  vaulted  tomb, 
With  its  darkness  and  its  gloom, 
With  its  murky,  heavy  air, 
And  the  silence  brooding  there, 
Lay  me,  love,  when  I  must  be 
Hidden  far  away  from  thee. 

Open  not  the  iron  door, 
Oped  so  oft  in  days  of  yore; 
Place  me  not  beside  the  dead, 
Whose  companionship  I  dread, 
Where  the  phantoms  come  and  go, 
Bending  o'er  the  coffins  low. 

But  when  one  with  icy  breath 
In  my  ear  has  whispered  "  death," 
When  the  heart  thy  voice  can  thrill, 
Has  grown  pulseless,  cold,  and  still, 
Kneel  beside  me,  o'er  me  bow, 
Press  thy  last  kiss  on  my  brow. 

Lay  me  then  to  dreamless  rest, 
With  the  sod  above  my  breast, 
In  some  quiet,  sheltered  spot, 
Peaceful  as  has  been  our  lot, 
Since  our  solemn  vows  were  said 
On  the  day  when  we  were  wed ! 


82  "EARTH  TO   EARTH." 

Let  the  sunlight  round  me  play 
Through  the  long,  bright  summer  day 
Let  old  trees  their  branches  wave 
O'er  my  green  and  grassy  grave, 
While  the  changing  shadows  flit 
In  strange  beauty  over  it. 

Plant  a  white  rose  at  my  feet, 

Or  a  lily  fair  and  sweet, 

With  the  humble  mignonette 

And  the  blue-eyed  violet. 

So  beside  me,  all  day  long, 

Bird  and  bee  shall  weave  their  song 

Then  methinks  at  eventide, 
With  our  children  by  thy  side, 
Darling !  thou  wilt  love  to  come 
To  my  calm  and  quiet  home; 
Thou  wilt  feel  my  presence  there, 
Filling  all  the  silent  air. 

Nearer  will  I  seem  to  thee, 
Sleeping  in  the  sunlight  free, 
Than  in  yonder  vaulted  tomb, 
With  its  darkness  and  its  gloom. 
"Earth  to  earth  and  dust  to  dust" 
Yield  thou,  love,  in  solemn  trust, 
When  our  last  farewell  is  said, 
And  thy  wife  is  with  the  dead ! 


AT  THE    GATE. 


AT   THE   GATE. 

A  QUIET  evening  long  ago, 

When  summer  winds  breathed  soft  and  low, 

As,  lingering  long,  the  perfect  day 

In  royal  splendor  passed  away. 

A  country  farm-house,  quaint  and  low, 
Grew  radiant  in  the  sunset  glow; 
Close  by,  two  grand  old  cherry-trees 
Swayed  slowly  to  the  scented  breeze. 

And  clinging  to  the  picket  gate, 
A  little  girl  of  summers  eight, 
As  if  with  just  anointed  eyes, 
Gazed  round  her  in  a  still  surprise. 

The  lofty  mountains  veiled  in  mist, 
Purple  and  rose  and  amethyst, 
Looked  tenderly,  yet  proudly,  down 
On  silent  vale  and  steepled  town. 

A  laughing  brooklet  flowed  between 
Fair  meadow-banks  of  softest  green, 
Translating,  as  it  swept  along, 
Its  own  sweet  fancies  into  song. 

Around  in  silent  grandeur  stood 
The  stately  children  of  the  wood ; 
Maple  and  elm  and  towering  pine 
Mantled  in  folds  of  dark  woodbine. 


84  THE    CHERRY-TREE. 

And  over  all  the  bending  sky 
Hung,  a  vast  dome,  serene  and  high ; 
While  upward  from  the  horizon  rolled 
Great  drifts  of  crimson,  pearl,  and  gold. 

The  bright  tints  paled ;  the  mountains  grew 
Sublimer  in  their  sombre  hue; 
Then  the  soft  air  grew  damp  and  chill, 
And  a  lone  voice  cried,  "Whip-po-wil!" 

She  raised  her  eyes.     A  silver  star 
Trembled  in  those  dark  depths  afar; 
And  half  in  joy,  and  half  in  fear, 
That  child  heart  whispered,  "God  is  here!" 


THE   CHERRY-TREE. 

ONCE  a  careless  little  child, 
With  my  elf-locks  floating  wild, 
Gay  as  bird,  and  blithe  as  bee, 
Played  I  'neath  the  Cherry-Tree. 

Far  and  wide  the  branche .  spread ; 
Scarce  of  blue  sky  overhead 
Could  I  catch  a  glimpse  between 
Swaying  leaves  of  deepest  green. 

Singing  softly,  to  my  breast 
Tenderly  my  doll  I  pressed, 
Murmuring  love-words,  such  as  mother 
Murmured  to  my  baby  brother. 


THE   CHERRY-TREE.  85 

Came  to  me  an  aged  crone, 
Withered,  weary,  and  alone; 
Weary  with  the  weight  of  years, 
Worn  with  toil  and  burning  tears. 

As  she  sadly  gazed  on  me, 
Playing  'neath  the  Cherry-Tree, — 
Vague,  unwonted  terror  stole 
Like  a  shadow  o'er  my  soul. 

"Art  thou  happy,  child?"  she  said; 
While  upon  my  drooping  head 
Lay  her  wrinkled  hand  so  chill, 
That  my  very  heart  grew  still. 

"Life  is  sorrow, — life  is  pain, — 
Never  will  there  come  again 
Joy  as  pure  as  this  to  thee, 
Child,  beneath  the  Cherry-Tree. " 


Swiftly  on  the  glad  years  flew, 
Till  the  child  a  maiden  grew ; 
And  beneath  the  Cherry-Tree 
Other  children  played  like  me. 

On  the  verge  of  womanhood, 
With  a  bounding  heart  I  stood ; 
Mourned  I  then  the  glowing  past? 
Back  no  longing  look  I  cast ! 

But  the  future — that  was  fair 
As  the  dreams  of  angels  are ; 
And  the  present — oh !  to  me 
It  was  joy  enough  to  be ! 
8 


86  THE   CHERRY-TREE. 

Then  again  a  warning  voice 
Bade  me  tremblingly  rejoice : 
And  the  crone  I  seemed  to  see 
Underneath  the  Cherry-Tree. 

"Girlhood  will  be  quickly  o'er; 
Life  will  bring  thee  nevermore 
Flowers  like  those  it  twineth  now, 
Maiden,  round  thy  fair  young  brow. ' ' 


Maidenhood  hath  passed  away; 
I  am  standing,  love,  to-day 
By  thy  side,  while  soft  and  clear, 
Sweet  young  voices  greet  mine  ear. 

Ah  !  thou  crone !    The  child  who  played 
'Neath  the  green  tree's  leafy  shade, 
Never  even  thought  of  bliss, 
Such  as  crowds  an  hour  like  this ! 

Voice  of  warning !     Maiden  dreams 
Are  as  bright  as  sunlit  streams; 
Yet  those  dreams  may  sometimes  be 
Dim  beside  reality ! 

Wouldst  thou  know,  love,  what  hath  brought 
Back  this  flood  of  olden  thought? 
Something  still  hath  said  to  me, 
"Ye  can  never  happier  be!" 

It  is  well,  my  heart  replied ; 

It  is  well,  whate'er  betide; 

Earth  would  be  too  much  like  heaven 

If  more  bliss  to  us  were  given ! 


THREE    WHITE   MICE. 


WHAT   MY   FRIEND   SAID   TO   ME. 

TROUBLE?  dear  friend,  I  know  her  not.     God  sent 
His  angel  Sorrow  on  my  heart  to  lay 
Her  hand  in  benediction,  and  to  say, 
"Restore,  O  child,  that  which  thy  Father  lent, 
For  He  doth  now  recall  it,"  long  ago. 

His  blessed  angel  Sorrow !     She  has  walked 
For  years  beside  me,  and  we  two  have  talked 
As  chosen  friends  together.     Thus  I  know 
Trouble  and  Sorrow  are  not  near  of  kin. 
Trouble  distrusteth  God,  and  ever  wears 
Upon  her  brow  the  seal  of  many  cares; 
But  Sorrow  oft  hast  deepest  peace  within. 
She  sits  with  Patience  in  perpetual  calm, 
Waiting  till  Heaven  shall  send  the  healing  bain. 


THREE   WHITE    MICE. 

A  CRUMB  FOR  THE  WEE  ONES. 

I  WILL  tell  you  a  story  of  three  little  mice, 

If  you  will  keep  still  and  listen  to  me, 
Who  live  in  a  cage  that  is  cosy  and  nice, 

And  are  just  as  cunning  as  cunning  can  be. 
They  look  very  wise,  with  their  pretty,  red  eyes, 

That  seem  just  exactly  like  little  round  beads ; 
They  are  white  as  the  snow,  and  stand  up  in  a  row 

Whenever  we  do  not  attend  to  their  needs. 


88  THREE    WHITE  MICE. 

Stand  up  in  a  row,  in  a  comical  way, — 

Now  folding  their  forepaws  as  if  saying  "please;" 
Now  rattling  the  lattice,  as  much  as  to  say, 

"We   shall   not   stay   here   without   more   bread  and 

cheese." 
They  are  not  at  all  shy,  as  you'll  find,  if  you  try 

To  make  them  run  up  in  their  chamber  to  bed ; 
If  they  don't  want  to  go,  why,  they  Avon't  go, — ah!  no, 

Though  you  tap  with  your  finger  each  queer  little  head. 

One  day  as  I  stood  by  the  side  of  the  cage, 

Through  the  bars  there  protruded  a  funny,  round  tail ; 
Just  for  mischief  I  caught  it,  and  soon,  in  a  rage, 

Its  owner  set  up  a  most  pitiful  wail. 
He  looked  in  dismay, — there  was  something  to  pay, — 

But  what  was  the  matter  he  could  not  make  out ; 
What  was  holding  him  so,  when  he  wanted  to  go 

To  see  what  his  brothers  up-stairs  were  about? 

But  soon  from  the  chamber  the  others  rushed  down, 

Impatient  to  learn  what  the  trouble  might  be ; 
I  have  not  a  doubt  that  each  brow  wore  a  frown, 

Only  frowns  on  their  brows  are  not  easy  to  see. 
For  a  moment  they  gazed,  perplexed  and  amazed, 

Then  began  both  together  to — gnaw  off  the  tail ! 
So  quick  I  released  him, — do  you  think  that  it  pleased 
him? 

And  up  the  small  staircase  they  fled  like  the  gale. 


QUESTIONINGS. 


QUESTIONINGS. 

WHAT  mother-angel  tended  thee  last  night, 

Sweet  baby  mine  ? 
Cradled  upon  what  breast  all  soft  and  white 

Didst  thou  recline  ? 

Who  took  thee,  frail  and  tender  as  thou  art, 

Within  her  arms  ? 
And  shielded  thee,  close  clasped  to  her  heart, 

From  all  alarms? 

Surely  that  God  who  lured  thee  from  the  breast 

That  hoped  to  be 
The  softest  pillow  and  the  sweetest  nest 

Thenceforth  to  thee, 

Sent  thee  not  forth  into  the  dread  unknown 

Without  a  guide, 
To  grope  in  darkness,  treading  all  alone 

The  path  untried. 

Compassionate  is  He  who  called  thee,  child ; 

And  well  I  know 
He  sent  some  Blessed  One  of  aspect  mild 

With  thee  to  go 

Through  the  dark  valley,  where  the  shadows  dim 

Forever  brood, 
That  the  low  music  of  an  angel's  hymn 

Might  cheer  the  solitude  ! 
8* 


HYMN. 


HYMN.— No.   i 

FOR   THE    DEDICATION   OF   A   CEMETERY. 
TUNE—"  Old  Hundred." 

YE  Pines,  with  solemn  grandeur  crowned, 
Put  on  your  priestly  robes  to-day ; 

Henceforth  ye  stand  on  holy  ground, 
Where  Love  and  Death  hold  equal  sway. 

Lift  up  to  Heaven  each  crested  head, 
And  raise  your  giant  arms  on  high, 

And  swear  that  o'er  our  slumbering  dead 
Ye  will  keep  "watch  and  ward"  for  aye. 

For  month  by  month,  and  year  by  year, 
While  shine  the  stars,  and  rolls  the  sea, 

Our  silent  ones  shall  gather  here, 
To  rest  beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 

Here  no  rude  sight  nor  sound  shall  break 
The  calmness  of  their  last,  long  sleep, 

And  Earth  and  Heaven,  for  Love's  sweet  sake, 
Shall  o'er  them  ceaseless  vigils  keep. 

Our  silent  ones  !    Their  very  dust 

Is  precious  in  our  longing  eyes; 
Oh,  guard  ye  well  the  sacred  trust, 

Till  God's  own  voice  shall  bid  them  rise  ! 


HYMN. 
HYMN.— No.   2. 

FOR   THE   DEDICATION   OF   A   CEMETERY. 
TUNE — "  Pleyel's  Hymn." 

GOD,  our  father's  God,  we  bow 
Reverently  before  thee  now, 
And  our  hearts  and  voices  raise 
To  thy  throne  in  prayer  and  praise. 

We  would  pray  to  Him  who  knows 
All  our  sorrows,  all  our  woes ; 
Him  whose  loving  heart  can  share 
All  the  griefs  his  children  bear. 

Christ  has  lain  within  the  tomb, 
Well  He  knows  its  fearful  gloom ; 
Knows  that  human  hearts  must  shrink 
From  its  dark  and  shadowy  brink. 

He  whose  tears  for  Lazarus  fell, 
Drank  of  suffering's  deepest  well ; 
He  can  pity  when  we  lay 
Our  beloved  ones  away, 

Out  of  sight,  beneath  the  sod, — 
Then  be  thou  our  helper,  God  ! 
Let  us  stay  our  souls  on  thee, 
For  no  other  help  have  we  ! 

We  would  pray, — for,  frail  and  weak, 
Much  we  need  the  good  we  seek  ; 


92  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

We  would  praise  thee, — for  thy  word 
Tells  us  that  our  prayers  are  heard. 

We  would  praise  thee  that  at  last, 
Death  and  sin  forever  past, 
Thy  dear  children  shall  arise 
To  adore  thee  in  the  skies ! 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

i. 

NIGHT  and  darkness  over  all ! 
Nature  sleeps  beneath  a  pall ; 
Not  a  ray  from  moon  or  stars 
Glimmers  through  the  cloudy  bars; 
Huge  and  black  the  mountains  stand 
Frowning  upon  either  hand, 
And  the  river,  dark  and  deep, 
Gropes  its  way  from  steep  to  steep. 
Yonder  tree,  whose  young  leaves  played 
In  the  sunshine  and  the  shade, 
Stretches  out  its  arms  like  one 
Sudden  blindness  hath  undone. 
Pale  and  dim  the  rose-queen  lies 
Robbed  of  all  her  gorgeous  dyes, 
And  the  lily  bendeth  low, 
Mourner  in  a  garb  of  woe. 
Never  a  shadow  comes  or  goes, 
Never  a  gleam  its  glory  throws 
Over  cottage  or  over  hall, — 
Darkness  broodeth  over  all ! 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

II. 

Night  without  on  fane  and  shrine, 
Night  within  this  soul  of  mine  ! 
Groping  blindly  in  the  dark, 
Searching  for  some  sure  landmark ; 
Wrestling  oft  with  unbelief, 
Vexed  by  questions  sharp  and  brief; 
Yearning  what  I  am  to  know, 
Whence  I  came  or  where  I  go ; 
Fain  to  learn  the  mysteries  hid, 
Even  the  simplest  lives  amid, 
And  its  secrets  dark  to  wrest 
From  the  grave's  unfathomed  breast; 
Seeking  in  a  maze  of  creeds 
One  best  suited  to  my  needs ; 
Tossed  upon  a  sea  of  doubt, 
Fears  within  and  storms  without ; 
Striving  still  the  way  to  see 
Where  the  thickest  shadows  be, 
Reaching  ever  toward  the  light, 
In  my  soul  is  darkest  night ! 

in. 

Lo  !  the  glorious  morning  breaks  ! 

Nature  from  her  sleep  awakes, 

And,  in  purple  pomp,  the  day 

Bids  the  darkness  flee  away. 

Crowned  with  light  the  mountains  stand 

Royally  on  either  hand, 

And  the  laughing  waters  run 

In  glad  haste  to  meet  the  sun. 

Stately  trees,  exultant,  raise 

Their  proud  heads  in  grateful  praise ; 


93 


94 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

Flowers,  dew-laden,  everywhere 
Pour  rich  incense  on  the  air, 
And  the  ascending  vapors  rise 
Like  the  smoke  of  sacrifice. 
Birds  are  trilling,  bees  are  humming, 
Swift  to  greet  the  new  day  coming, 
And  earth's  myriad  voices  sing 
Hymns  of  grateful  welcoming. 
Bursting  from  night's  heavy  thrall, 
Heaven's  own  light  is  over  all! 

IV. 

Light  in  nature's  inmost  shrine, 
Light  within  this  soul  of  mine  ! 
Leaning  on  the  All-Father's  breast 
In  serene  and  tranquil  rest ; 
Caring  not  the  way  to  see 
While  He  gently  leadeth  me ; 
Fearing  not  the  treacherous  dark 
While  to  his  dear  voice  I  hark ; 
Knowing  if  the  way  be  dim 
I  must  closer  cling  to  Him  ; 
What  I  cannot  understand 
Glad  to  leave  in  God's  own  hand, 
Sure  that  Heaven  is  over  all, 
And  that  He  loves  great  and  small ; 
Yielding  the  present  to  his  will, 
For  the  future  trusting  still, — 
While  beyond  death's  mystery 
The  calm  face  of  Christ  I  see, 
That  dear  face  whose  loving  eyes 
Wept  alone  in  sad  surprise. 
From  my  heart  the  shadows  roll, 
It  is  morning  in  my  soul ! 


MA  TURITY.  95 


MATURITY. 

TIME  was  I  mourned  the  vanished  years, 
The  glad  and  glorious  days  of  youth, 

When  Memory  shed  no  bitter  tears, 

And  young  Romance  clasped  hands  with  Truth. 

I  sighed  because  the  early  flowers, 

Spring's  first  fair  children,  died  so  soon, 

And  all  the  dewy  morning  hours 
Fled  fast  before  the  summer  noon. 

I  grieved  that  aught  so  very  fair 

As  Youth  and  May  should  be  so  fleet ; 

That  Life's  first  vintage,  sweet  and  rare, 
But  once  the  eager  lip  may  meet. 

Tut  standing  with  hushed  heart  to-day 
Where  summer  sunshine  warmly  glows, 

I  sigh  not  for  Spring's  flowery  way, 
Nor  dread  the  autumn's  rich  repose. 

I  would  not,  if  I  could,  go  back. 

Life's  noon  is  better  than  its  morn; 
Flower-wreathed  and  crowned,  it  does  not  lack 

One  rose,  nor  find  one  added  thorn. 

Go  back? — To  meet  the  strange  unrest 
That  fills  the  fiery  heart  of  youth, — 

The  longing  sadness  of  the  breast 
That  cannot  understand  its  ruth, — 


96  MATURITY. 

The  doubts,  the  passionate  despair, 
The  uncertain  step,  the  hidden  fear, — 

The  shadow  of  oncoming  care 

Darker  and  colder  than  when  near, — 

The  weary  reaching  after  what 

The  puny  hands  still  fail  to  grasp, — 

The  search  for  good,  to  find  it  not 

The  thing  we  sought  for  in  our  clasp, — 

The  dread  of  all  the  mysteries  blent 
In  that  yet  unread  mystery,  life, — 

The  shrinking  from  the  angels  sent 
To  guard  us  amid  sin  and  strife, — 

Go  back  to  meet  all  these?    Ah,  no! 

Life's  summer  sun  illumes  my  way; 
No  roses  crowned  the  long  ago 

More  bright  than  those  I  wear  to-day ! 

Some  fleeting  joys  of  youth  are  past; 

But  past,  too,  are  its  trembling  fears; 
It  had  some  hopes  too  bright  to  last, 

Balanced  alway  by  weight  of  tears. 

Now  stilled  is  all  the  vague  unrest, 
The  eager  longing  of  the  spring; 

With  Peace  for  its  abiding  guest, 
My  quiet  heart  can  sit  and  sing. 

What  though  the  autumn  days  come  next? 

They  bring  rich  sheaves  and  ripened  fruit, 
And  at  their  step  shall  I  be  vext 

Even  though  the  singing  birds  are  mute? 


V 

PEACE.  97 

God  crowns  all  seasons  with  his  gifts; 

Each  in  its  turn  the  fairest  seems; 
And  many  a  heart  to  him  uplifts, 

Whose  real  is  dearer  than  its  dreams. 


PEACE. 

ERE  our  dear  Saviour  spoke  the  parting  word 
To  those  who  loved  Him  best  when  here  below, 

While  deep  emotion  every  bosom  stirred, 
He  said,  "My  peace  I  give  you  ere  I  go !" 

His  Peace,  sweet  Peace !     As  falls  the  summer  dew 
On  drooping  flowers,  so  fell  those  words  of  cheer 

Upon  the  earnest  hearts  that  dimly  knew 

What  they,  like  their  dear  Lord,  must  suffer  here. 

His  Peace — Christ's  Peace !    O  gift  most  rare  and  strange ! 

Never  was  aught  so  precious  given  before ! 
Vain  trifler  he  who  would  that  gift  exchange 

For  all  the  riches  of  Golconda's  shore! 

His  Peace — His  blessed  Peace !     Not  Joy,  the  bright, 
Bewildering  sprite  that  charmed  their  early  years, 

When  with  youth's  roses  crowned,  and  clad  in  light, 
Her  radiant  eyes  had  ne'er  been  dimmed  by  tears, — 

But  Peace  that  walks  with  Patience,  side  by  side, 
Bearing  Heaven's  seal  upon  her  pure,  calm  face; 

Child  of  Submission,  whatso'er  betide, 

She  wears  the  white  robes  of  celestial  grace. 
9 


98  YESTERDA  Y  AND    TO- DA  Y. 

O  Christ !  whose  human  heart  remembers  still 
The  pangs  from  which  death  only  gave  release, 

Strange  griefs,  strange  fears,  our  yearning  souls  must  fill, 
Withhold  what  else  thou  wilt — but  give  us  Peace ! 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-DAV. 

BUT  yesterday  among  us  here, 

One  with  ourselves  in  hope  and  fear: 

Joying  like  us  in  little  things, 

The  sheen  of  gorgeous  insect  wings, 

The  song  of  bird,  the  hum  of  bee, 

The  white  foam  of  the  heaving  sea. 

But  yesterday  your  simplest  speech, 

Your  lightest  breath,  our  hearts  could  reach; 

Your  very  thoughts  were  ours.     Our  eyes 

Found  in  your  own  no  mysteries. 

Your  griefs,  your  joys,  your  prayers,  we  knew, 

The  hopes  that  with  your  girlhood  grew. 

But  yesterday  we  dared  to  say, 
"'Twere  better  you  should  walk  this  way 
Or  that,  dear  child !     Do  thus  or  so; 
Older  and  wiser  we,  you  know." 
We  gave  you  flowers  and  curled  your  hair, 
And  brought  new  robes  for  you  to  wear. 

To-day  how  far  away  thou  art ! 
In  all  thy  life  we  have  no  part. 


YESTERDA  Y  AND    TO-DA  Y. 

Hast  thou  a  want  ?     We  know  it  not ; 

Utterly  parted  from  our  lot, 

The  veriest  stranger  is  to  thee 

All  those  who  loved  thee  best  can  be. 

Deaf  to  our  calls,  our  prayers,  our  cries, 
Thou  dost  not  lift  thy  heavy  eyes; 
Nor  heed  the  tender  words  that  flow 
From  lips  whose  kisses  thrilled  thee  so 
But  yesterday !     To-day  in  vain 
We  wait  for  kisses  back  again. 

To-day  no  awful  mystery  hid 
The  dark  and  mazy  past  amid, 
Is  half  so  great  as  this  that  lies 
Beneath  the  lids  of  thy  shut  eyes, 
And  in  1,hose  frozen  lips  of  stone, 
Impassive  lips,  that  smile  nor  moan. 

But  yesterday  with  loving  care 

We  petted,  praised  thee,  called  thee  fair; 

To-day,  oppressed  with  awe,  we  stand 

Before  that  ring-unfettered  hand, 

And  scarcely  dare  to  lift  one  tress 

In  mute  and  reverent  caress. 

But  yesterday  with  us.     To-day 

Where  thou  art  dwelling,  who  can  say? 

In  heaven?     But  where?     Oh!  for  some  spell 

To  make  thy  tongue  this  secret  tell ! 

To  break  the  silence  strange  and  deep, 

That  thy  sealed  lips  so  closely  keep ! 

In  vain — in  vain  !     But  yesterday 
So  quick  to  answer  and  obey ; 


99 


I0o  DE   PROFUNDIS. 

To-day,  unmoved  by  word  or  tear, 
A  creature  of  another  sphere, 
Thou  heedest  us  no  more  than  they 
Who  passed  before  the  Flood  away ! 


DE   PROFUNDIS. 

TOSSED  by  the  heaving  of  passion's  wild  billows, 

Struggling  with  anguish  and  doubt  and  despair, 
Ere  the  dark  waters  close  o'er  him  forever, 

Hearken,  O  God,  to  his  agonized  prayer ! 
There  is  no  star  in  the  heavens  above  him, 

There  is  no  rift  in  the  dark  rolling  cloud ; 
Only  the  thunder  of  storm-beaten  surges, — 

Only  the  roar  of  the  waves  swelling  loud ! 

Thou  who  art  sitting  serene  in  the  heavens, 

Judging  the  ways  that  Earth's  children  have  trod, 
Art  thou  unmoved  by  the  cry  of  his  anguish? 

Dost  thou  not  hear  it,  Omnipotent  God? 
Didst  thou  net  fashion  him  out  of  the  darkness, 

Moulding  him  even  when  hid  in  the  womb? 
Not  of  his  seeking  the  life  that  thou  gavest, 

Burdened  with  sorrow  and  heavy  with  gloom ! 

Fettered  by  circumstance,  place,  and  position, 
Tempted  by  foes  from  without  and  within, 

Wrestling  with  Evil,  alone,  single-handed, 
After  long  conflict  he  yielded  to  sin. 

O  thou  Immaculate !     Thou,  the  Unsinning ! 
Thou  whose  own  being  is  spotless  and  pure, 


IN  THE    GARDEN.  IOi 

How  from  the  heights  of  thy  sinless  perfection, 

Canst  judge  us  with  judgment,  just,  righteous,  and  sure? 

Ah!  dare  I  question  thee,  THOU,  the  All-loving? 

Lo !  this  the  answer  we  find  in  thy  Word : 
"Sitting  serene  on  my  throne  in  the  heavens, 

Never  one  cry  fioateth  past  me  unheard ! 
O  ye  disconsolate,  heartsick,  and  erring, 

Tempted  and  languishing,  lost  and  undone, 
How  can  ye  question  the  love  that  I  bear  ye 

When  out  of  its  fullness  I  gave  ye  MY  SON?" 

Thou  who  didst  wander  in  lone  wildernesses ! 

Thou  who  didst  suffer  all  pain  and  all  loss ! 
Thou  who  didst  moan  in  Gethsemane's  garden ! 

Thou  who  didst  hang  on  the  terrible  cross ! 
Thou  who  wert  tempted  as  never  another, — 

Thou  who  wert  man  but  yet  sinless  and  pure, — 
Out  of  the  depths  do  we  lift  up  our  voices, 

Only  in  Thee  find  we  strength  to  endure ! 


IN   THE    GARDEN. 

COME  out  in  the  garden,  children, 

Before  the  sun  goes  down, 
While  yet  the  purple  glory 

Brightens  the  far-off  town  : 
While  yet  the  rosy  vapor 

Bathes  all  the  mountains  round ; 
And  list  to  the  mystic  music 

That  rises  from  the  ground. 
9* 


102  IN  THE    GARDEN. 

It  is  early,  early  springtime ; 

In  slumber  calm  and  deep 
The  violet  and  the  heliotrope, 

The  rose  and  lily  sleep. 
But  as  little  children  whisper 

And  smile  ere  they  awake, 
So  now  their  low,  sweet  voices 

The  winter  silence  break. 

A  soft  and  thrilling  murmur 

The  listening  spirit  hears, 
Too  faint  and  too  ethereal 

To  reach  our  fleshly  ears. 
It  tells  of  restless  yearnings, 

Of  throbbing,  struggling  life, 
Of  eager,  upward  aimings, 

Of  glad,  rejoicing  strife. 

They  are  not  dumb  and  lifeless ! 

Far  down  beneath  the  sod, 
With  new-born  joy  exultant, 

They  hear  the  voice  of  God ! 
And  they  stretch  their  glad  arms  upward, 

Impatient  for  the  day, 
When  the  blessed  golden  sunlight 

Upon  their  brows  shall  play. 

And  I  dare  to  dream  they  love  me, — 

That,  as  I  inly  pine 
For  the  blessing  of  their  presence, 

Even  so  do  they  for  mine. 
O  my  buried  ones,  my  darlings ! 

When  ye  hear  my  step  and  voice, 
In  the  darkness  of  your  prison-cells, 

I  know  that  ye  rejoice ! 


THE  HUMMING-BIRD. 

Haste !  haste !  I  bend  above  ye 

With  yearning  love  and  trust, 
Whose  warmth  must  reach  ye  as  ye  lie 

Far  down  beneath  the  dust. 
Shake  off  your  clay-cold  cerements ! 

The  resurrection  morn 
Has  dawned  upon  the  mountains, 

And  a  new  world  is  born ! 


THE   HUMMING-BIRD. 

HUMMING  o'er  the  flowers 

All  the  summer  day, 
Poised  on  unseen  winglets 

A  moment, — then  away ! 
Swifter  than  an  arrow 

Darting  from  the  bow, 
Little  jeweled  wonder, 

Thou  dost  come  and  go ! 

Nesting,  nesting,  nesting, 

Where,  'mid  clustering  leaves, 
Web  of  shade  and  sunshine 

Summer  deftly  weaves ; 
Sitting,  sitting,  sitting 

In  your  downy  nest, — 
Is  it  labor,  birdie, 

Orserenest  rest? 

Brooding,  brooding,  brooding 
O'er  two  tiny  pearls, 


104 


A   SONG  FOR    TWO. 

Pure  as  those  that  shimmered 
In  Queen  Esther's  curls  ! 

Wilt  thou  wonder,  birdie, 
When  they  pass  away? 

Tell  me,  which  is  dearer, 
Pearls,  or  life,  to-day? 

Hast  thou  learned  the  lesson 

That  we  learn  in  pain, 
How  joy  comes  of  sorrow, 

And  of  losses,  gain? 
Ah !  I  question  vainly, 

As,  darting  to  and  fro, 
Again,  thou  jeweled  wonder, 

Thou  dost  come  and  go  ! 


A   SONG   FOR  TWO. 

NOT  for  its  sunsets  burning  clear  and  low, 
Its  purple  splendors  on  the  eastern  hills, 

Bless  I  the  Year  that  now  makes  haste  to  go 
While  sad  Earth  listens  for  its  dying  thrills. 

Not  that  its  days  were  aweet  with  sun  and  showers; 

Its  summer  nights  all  luminous  with  stars: 
Not  that  its  vales  were  studded  thick  with  flowers; 

Not  that  its  mountains  pierced  the  azure  bars; 

Not  that  from  our  dear  land,  by  slow  degrees, 
Some  mists  of  error  it  hath  blown  away; 

Not  for  its  noble  deeds — ah !  not  for  these — 
Fair  would  I  twine  this  wreath  of  song  to-day. 


ONCE  ! 

But  for  one  gift  that  it  has  brought  to  me 

My  grateful  heart  would  crown  the  dying  Year ; 

Because,  O  best -beloved,  it  gave  me  thee, 
I  drop  this  garland  on  the  passing  bier ! 


ONCE! 

ONCE  in  your  sight, 
As  May  buds  swell  in  the  sun's  warm,  light, 

So  grew  her  soul, 
Yielding  itself  to  your  sweet  control. 

Once  if  you  spoke, 
Echoing  strains  in  her  heart  awoke, 

Sending  a  thrill 
All  through  its  chambers  sweet  and  still. 

Once  if  you  said, 
"Sweet,  with  Love's  garland  I  crown  your  head," 

Ah !  how  the  rose 
Flooded  her  forehead's  pale  repose  ! 

Once  if  your  lip 
Dared  the  pure  sweetness  of  hers  to  sip, 

Softly  and  meek 
Dark  lashes  drooped  on  a  white  rose  cheek ! 

Once  if  your  name 
Some  one  but  whispered,  a  sudden  flame 

Burned  on  her  cheek, 
Telling  a  story  she  would  not  speak ! 


106  ONCE! 

Once, — ah !  I  sin, 
Raising  the  ghost  of  what  once  has  been  ! 

Yet  list,  I  pray, 
To  one  plain  truth  that  I  speak  to-day. 

You  do  but  wait 
At  a  sepulchre's  sealed  gate! 

Her  love  is  dead, 
Bound  hand  and  foot  in  its  narrow  bed. 

Why  did  it  die? 
Ask  of  your  soul  the  reason  why ! 

Question  it  well, 
And  surely  the  secret  it  will  tell. 

But  if  your  heart 
Ever  again  plays  the  lover's  part, 

Let  this  truth  be 
Blent  with  the  solemn  mystery : 

Pure  flame  aspires; 
Downward  flow  not  the  altar  fires ; 

And  skylarks  soar 
Up  where  the  earth  mists  vex  no  more. 

Now  loose  your  hold 
From  her  white  garment's  spotless  fold; 

And  let  her  pass, — 
While  both  hearts  murmur,  "Alas!  alas!' 


WHAT  I  LOST. 


WHAT   I   LOST. 

WANDERING  in  the  dewy  twilight 

Of  a  golden  summer  day, 
When  the  mists  upon  the  mountains 

Flushed  with  purple  splendor  lay: 
When  the  sun  just  kissed  the  hilltops 

And  the  vales  were  hushed  and  dim, 
And  from  out  the  forest  arches 

Rose  a  holy  vesper  hymn, — 
I  lost  something.     Have  you  seen  it, 

Children,  ye  who  passed  that  way? 
Did  you  chance  to  find  the  treasure 

That  I  lost  that  summer  day? 

It  was  neither  gold  nor  silver, 

Orient  pearl  nor  jewel  rare; 
Neither  amethyst,  nor  ruby, 

Nor  an  opal  gleaming  fair; 
'Twas  no  curious,  quaint  mosaic 

Wrought  by  cunning  master-hands, 
Nor  a  cameo  where  Hebe 

Crowned  with  deathless  beauty  stands. 
Yet  have  I  lost  something  precious; 

Children,  ye  who  passed  that  way, — 
Tell  me,  have  you  found  the  treasure 

That  I  lost  one  summer  day? 

Then,  you  say,  it  was  a  casket 
Filled  with  India's  perfumes  rare, 

Or  a  tiny  flask  of  crystal 

Meet  the  rose's  breath  to  bear; 


107 


I08  THE   CHIMNEY  SWALLOW. 

Or  a  bird  of  wondrous  plumage, 

With  a  voice  of  sweetest  tone, 
That  escaping  from  my  bosom 

To  the  greenwood  deep  has  flown. 
Ah !  not  these,  I  answer  vainly ; 

Children,  ye  who  passed  that  way, 
Ye  can  never  find  the  treasure 

That  I  lost  that  summer  day ! 

You  may  call  it  bird  or  blossom ; 

Name  my  treasure  what  you  will; 
Here  no  more  its  song  or  fragrance 

Shall  my  soul  with  rapture  fill. 
But,  thank  God !  our  earthly  losses 

In  no  darksome  void  are  cast; 
Safely  garnered,  some  to-morrow 

Shall  restore  them  all  at  last. 
Somewhere  in  the  great  hereafter, 

Children,  ye  who  pass  this  way, 
I  shall  find  again  the  treasure 

That  I  lost  one  summer  day ! 


THE   CHIMNEY   SWALLOW. 

ONE  night  as  I  sat  by  my  table, 

Tired  of  books  and  pen, 
With  wandering  thoughts  far  straying 

Out  into  the  world  of  men ; — 
That  world  where  the  busy  workers 

Such  magical  deeds  are  doing, 
Each  one  with  a  steady  purpose 

His  own  pet  plans  pursuing ; 


THE    CHIMNEY  SWALLOW. 

When  the  house  was  wrapt  in  silence, 
And  the  children  were  all  asleep, 

And  even  the  mouse  in  the  wainscot 
Had  ceased  to  run  and  leap, 

All  at  once  from  the  open  chimney 

Came  a  hum  and  a  rustle  and  whirring, 

That  startled  me  out  of  my  dreaming, 

And  set  my  pulses  stirring. 

• 

What  was  it?     I  paused  and  listened; 

The  roses  were  all  in  bloom, 
And  in  from  the  garden  floated 

The  violet's  rich  perfume. 
So  it  could  not  be  Kriss  Kringle, 

For  he  only  comes,  you  know, 
When  the  Christmas  bells  are  chiming, 

And  the  hills  are  white  with  snow. 

Hark !  a  sound  as  of  rushing  waters, 

Or  the  rustle  of  falling  leaves, 
Or  the  patter  of  eager  raindrops 

Yonder  among  the  eaves ! 
Then  out  from  the  dark,  old  chimney, 

Blackened  with  soot  and  smoke, 
With  a  whir  of  fluttering  pinions 

A  startled  birdling  broke, — 

Dashing  against  the  window; 

'Lighting  a  moment  where 
My  sculptured  Angel  folded 

Its  soft  white  wings  in  prayer; 
Swinging  upon  the  curtains; 

Perched  on  the  ivy-vine; 
At  last  it  rested  trembling 

In  tender  hands  of  mine. 
I  ;> 


109 


I10  CATHARINE. 

No  stain  upon  its  plumage ; 

No  dust  upon  its  wings; 
Ah,  happy  bird !  thus  dwelling 

Unsoiled  'mid  foulest  things. 
But  happier  thou,  O  soul  of  mine ! 

When  thou  at  last  shalt  soar, 
Where  earthly  soil  and  sorrow 

Shall  vex  thee  nevermore ! 


CATHARINE. 

O  WONDROUS  mystery  of  death ! 

I  yield  me  to  thine  awful  sway, 
And  with  hushed  heart  and  bated  breath 

Bow  down  before  thy  shrine  to-day ! 

But  yesterday  these  pallid  lips 

Breathed  reverently  my  humble  name ; 
These  eyes  now  closed  in  drear  eclipse 

Brightened  with  gratitude's  soft  flame. 

These  poor,  pale  hands  were  swift  to  do 
The  lowliest  service  I  might  ask; 

These  palsied  feet  the  long  day  through 
Moved  gladly  to  each  wonted  task. 

O  faithful,  patient,  loving  one, 

Who  from  earth's  great  ones  shrank  afar, 
Canst  bear  the  presence  of  The  Son, 

And  dwell  where  holy  angels  are? 


HEIR  SHI  P. 

Dost  thou  not  meekly  bow  thine  head, 
And  stand  apart  with  humblest  mien, 

Nor  dare  with  softest  step  to  tread 
The  ranks  of  shining  Ones  between? 

Dost  thou  not  kneel  with  downcast  eyes 
The  hem  of  some  white  robe  to  touch, 

While  on  thine  own  meek  forehead  lies 
The  crown  of  her  who  "loved  much." 

O  vain  imaginings !     To-day 

Earth's  loftiest  prince  is  not  thy  peer. 
Come,  Sage  and  Seer!  mute  homage  pay 

To  this  Pale  Wonder  lying  here  ! 


HEIRSHIP. 

LITTLE  store  of  wealth  have  I ; 

Not  a  rood  of  land  I  own; 
Nor  a  mansion  fair  and  high 

Built  with  towers  of  fretted  stone. 
Stocks  nor  bonds,  nor  title-deeds, 

Flocks  nor  herds  have  I  to  show; 
When  I  ride,  no  Arab  steeds 

Toss  for  me  their  manes  of  snow. 

I  have  neither  pearls  nor  gold, 
Massive  plate,  nor  jewels  rare; 

Broidered  silks  of  worth  untold, 
Nor  rich  robes  a  queen  might  wear 


In  my  garden's  narrow  bound 
Flaunt  no  costly  tropic  blooms, 

Ladening  all  the  air  around' 
With  a  weight  of  rare  perfumes. 

Yet  to  an  immense  estate 

Am  I  heir,  by  grace  of  God, — 
Richer,  grander  than  doth  wait 

Any  earthly  monarch's  nod. 
Heir  of  all  the  Ages,  I — 

Heir  of  all  that  they  have  wrought, 
All  their  store  of  emprise  high, 

All  their  wealth  of  precious  thought. 

Every  golden  deed  of  theirs 

Sheds  its  lustre  on  my  way; 
All  their  labors  all  their  prayers, 

Sanctify  this  present  day ! 
Heir  of  all  that  they  have  earned 

By  their  passion  and  their  tears, — 
Heir  of  all  that  they  have  learned 

Through  the  weary,  toiling  years! 

Heir  of  all  the  faith  sublime 

On  whose  wings  they  soared  to  heaven ; 
Heir  of  every  hope  that  Time 

To  Earth's  fainting  sons  hath  given! 
Aspirations  pure  and  high, — 

Strength  to  dare  and  to  endure, — 
Heir  of  all  the  Ages,  I — 

Lo !  I  am  no  longer  poor ! 


ACNES. 


AGNES. 

AGNES  !  Agnes !  is  it  thus 
Thou,  at  last,  dost  come  to  us? 
From  the  land  of  balm  and  bloom, 
Blandest  airs  and  sweet  perfume, 
Where  the  jasmine's  golden  stars 
Glimmer  soft  through  emerald  bars, 
And  the  fragrant  orange  flowers 
Fall  to  earth  in  silver  showers, 

Agnes!  Agnes! 

With  thy  pale  hands  on  thy  breast, 
Comest  thou  here  to  take  thy  rest? 

Agnes!  Agnes!  o'er  thy  grave 
Loud  the  winter  winds  will  rave, 
And  the  snow  fall  fast  around, 
Heaping  high  thy  burial  mound ; 
Yet,  within  its  soft  embrace, 
Thy  dear  form  and  earnest  face, 
Wrapt  away  from  burning  pain, 
Ne'er  shall  know  one  pang  again. 

Agnes !  Agnes ! 

Nevermore  shall  anguish  vex  thee, 
Nevermore  shall  care  perplex  thee. 

Agnes!  Agnes!  wait,  ah!  wait 
Just  one  moment  at  the  gate, 
Ere  your  pure  feet  enter  in, 
Where  is  neither  pain  nor  sin. 


AGNES. 

Thou  art  blest,  but  how  shall  we 
Bear  the  pang  of  losing  thee? 
Thou  art  safe,  but  round  us  roll 
Billows  which  o'erwhelm  the  soul. 

Agnes!  Agnes! 

What  if  we  should  lose  our  way 
In  the  darkness  where  we  stray? 

Agnes !  Agnes !  turn  thine  ear 
From  the  anthems  swelling  clear; 
Passing  sweet  are  they  we  know, 
While  our  words  are  weak  and  low; 
But  we  love  thee !  ah !  how  well 
Angel  tongue  could  never  tell; 
List !  we  love  thee  !     By  that  word 
Once  thy  heart  of  hearts  was  stirred. 

Agnes!  Agnes! 
By  that  love  we  bid  thee  wait 
Just  one  moment  at  the  gate ! 

Agnes!  Agnes!     No!     Pass  on 
To  the  heaven  that  thou  hast  won ! 
By  thy  life  of  brave  endeavor, 
Up  the  heights  aspiring  ever, 
Whence  thy  voice,  like  clarion  clear, 
Rang  out  words  of  lofty  cheer, — 
By  thy  laboring  not  in  vain, 
By  thy  martyrdom  of  pain, 

Our  Saint  Agnes — 
From  our  yearning  sight  pass  on 
To  the  Rest  that  thou  hast  won ! 


MY  MOCKING-BIRD.  115 


MY  MOCKING-BIRD. 

MOCKING-BIRD  !  mocking-bird !  swinging  high 

Aloft  in  your  gilded  cage, 
The  clouds  are  hurrying  over  the  sky, 

The  wild  winds  fiercely  rage. 
But  soft  and  warm  is  the  air  you  breathe 
Up  there  with  the  tremulous  ivy  wreath; 
And  never  an  icy  blast  can  chill 
The  perfumed  silence  sweet  and  still. 

Mocking-bird !  mocking-bird !  from  your  throat 

Breaks  forth  no  flood  of  song, 
Nor  even  a  perfect  golden  note, 

Triumphant,  glad  and  strong ! 
But  now  and  then  a  pitiful  wail, 
Like  the  plaintive  sigh  of  the  dying  gale, 
Comes  from  that  arching  breast  of  thine 
Swinging  up  there  with  the  ivy-vine. 

Mocking-bird !  mocking-bird  !  well  I  know 

Your  heart  is  far  away, 
Where  the  golden  stars  of  the  jasmine  glow, 

And  the  roses  bloom  alway ! 
For  your  cradle-nest  was  softly  made 
In  the  depth  of  a  blossoming  myrtle's  shade; 
And  you  heard  the  chant  of  the  southern  seas 
Borne  inland  by  the  favoring  breeze. 

But,  ah,  my  beautiful  mocking-bird! 
Should  I  bear  you  back  again, 


n6  MY  MOCKING-BIRD. 

Never  would  song  of  yours  be  heard 

Echoing  through  the  glen. 
For  once,  ah !  once  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
You  waked  to  the  roar  of  the  deadly  fray, 
When  the  terrible  clash  of  armed  foes 
Startled  the  vale  from  its  dim  repose. 

At  first  you  sat  on  a  swaying  bough, 

Mocking  the  bugle's  blare, 
Fearless  and  free  in  the  fervid  glow 

Of  the  heated,  sulphurous  air. 
Your  voice  rang  out  like  a  trumpet's  note, 
With  a  martial  ring  in  its  upward  float, 
And  stern  men  smiled,  for  you  seemed  to  be 
Cheering  them  on  to  victory! 

But  at  length,  as  the  awful  day  wore  on, 

You  flew  to  a  tree-top  high, 
And  sat  like  a  spectre  grim  and  wan, 

Outlined  against  the  sky; 
Sat  silently  watching  the  fiery  fray 
Till,  heaps  upon  heaps,  the  Blue  and  Gray 
Lay  together,  a  silent  band, 
Whose  souls  had  passed  to  the  shadowy  land. 

Ah,  my  mocking-bird !  swinging  there 

Under  the  ivy-vine, 
You  still  remember  the  bugle's  blare, 

And  the  blood  poured  forth  like  wine. 
The  soul  of  song  in  your  gentle  breast 
Died  in  that  hour  of  fierce  unrest, 
When  like  a  spectre  grim  and  wan, 
You  watched  to  see  how  the  strife  went  on. 


UNDER    THE   PALM-TREES. 


117 


UNDER   THE   PALM-TREES. 

WE  were  children  together,  you  and  I, 

We  trod  the  same  paths  in  days  of  old ; 
Together  we  watched  the  sunset  sky, 

And  counted  its  bars  of  massive  gold. 
And  when  from  the  dark  horizon's  brim 
The  moon  stole  up  with  its  silver  rim, 
And  slowly  sailed  through  the  fields  of  air, 
We  thought  there  was  nothing  on  earth  so  fair. 

You  walk  to-night  where  the  jasmines  grow, 

And  the  Cross  looks  down  from  the  tropic  skies ; 
Where  the  spicy  breezes  softly  blow, 

And  the  slender  shafts  of  the  palm-trees  rise. 
V"ou  breathe  the  breath  of  the  orange  flowers, 
And  the  perfumed  air  of  the  myrtle  bowers; 
You  pluck  the  acacia's  golden  balls, 
And  mark  where  the  red  pomegranate  falls. 

I  stand  to-night  on  the  breezy  hill, 

Where  the  pine-trees  sing  as  they  sang  of  yore; 
The  north  star  burneth  clear  and  still, 

And  the  moonbeams  silver  your  father's  door. 
I  can  see  the  hound  as  he  lies  asleep, 
In  the  shadow  close  by  the  old  well-sweep, 
And  hear  the  river's  murmuring  flow, 
As  we  two  heard  it  long  ago. 


Il8  HYMN. 

Do  you  think  of  the  firs  on  the  mountain-side, 

As  you  walk  to-night  where  the  palm-trees  grow? 
Of  the  brook  where  the  trout  in  the  darkness  hide? 

Of  the  yellow  willows  waving  slow? 
Do  you  long  to  drink  of  the  crystal  spring, 
In  the  dell  where  the  purple  harebells  swing? 
Would  your  pulses  leap  could  you  hear  once  more 
The  sound  of  the  flail  on  the  threshing-floor? 

Ah !  the  years  are  long,  and  the  world  is  wide. 

And  the  salt  sea  rolls  our  hearts  between ; 
And  never  again  at  eventide 

Shall  we  two  gaze  on  the  same  fair  scene. 
But  under  the  palm-trees  wandering  slow, 
You  think  of  the  spreading  elms  I  know; 
And  you  deem  our  daisies  fairer  far 
Than  the  gorgeous  blooms  of  the  tropics  are ! 


HYMN. 

FOR    AN    INSTALLATION. 

SING  aloud,  O  happy  voices ! 

Fill  the  air  with  joyful  praise, 
While  each  grateful  heart  rejoices 

In  the  gift  that  crowns  our  days ! 

Sing  for  joy !     But  let  your  singing 
To  the  heights  of  prayer  upreach. 

To  thy  throne,  O  God !  are  winging 
Thoughts  too  vast  for  human  speech. 


HYMN.  119 

Yet  for  him  whom  thou  hast  sent  us, 
Now,  with  yearning  hearts,  we  pray; 

Keep  the  treasure  thou  hast  lent  us, 
Father,  near  to  thee  alway ! 

When  his  heart  grows  faint  and  weary, 
Strengthen  him  with  heavenly  wine; 

If  his  path  grows  dark  or  dreary, 
Lighten  it  with  light  divine. 

When  the  spirit,  Lord,  is  willing, 
Though  the  shrinking  flesh  is  weak, 

Let  thy  voice,  all  tempests  stilling, 
Blessed  words  of  comfort  speak. 

When  he  kneels  beside  our  dying, — 

When  he  lays  our  dead  away, — 
In  our  anguish  and  our  crying, 

Teach  thou  him  what  words  to  say. 

When  before  thy  holy  altar 

He  shall  pour  the  sacred  wine, 
Let  his  strong  hand  never  falter, 

Holding  fast  to  hand  of  thine. 

Now  on  pastor  and  on  people, 

Lord,  thy  fullest  blessing  pour, 
While  the  bell  from  out  the  steeple 

Rings  in  peace  for  evermore ! 


120  WEARINESS. 


,  WEARINESS. 

I  AM  weary, — 

Give  me  rest ! 
Long  the  way  seems,  dark  and  dreary, 

It  were  best 
If  beneath  the  sod  low  lying 

Fast  asleep, 

Nevermore  might  Earth's  sad  sighing 
Rouse  me  from  my  slumber  deep ! 

I  am  tired  ! 

Once  my  feet 
Up  the  mountain  heights  aspired 

Light  and  fleet ! 
Now,  alas !  they  feebly  falter 

On  the  road, 

And  my  weak  arms  to  the  altar 
Bear  no  sacrificial  load  ! 

For  life's  fever 

Bring  me  balm ! 
Wrap  my  senses,  O  Rest-Giver, 

In  thy  calm  ! 
Downy  soft  shall  be  my  pillow 

When  at  last 

Far  across  Death's  heaving  billow 
I  shall  smile  at  conflicts  past ! 


ODE. 


ODE 

FOR   THE   DEDICATION   OF   A   MUSIC-HALL. 

No  grand  Cathedral's  vaulted  space 

Where,  through  the  "dim,  religious  light," 

Gleam  pictured  saint  and  cross  and  crown, 
We  consecrate  with  song  to-night ; 

No  stately  temple  lifting  high 
Its  dome  against  the  starlit  skies, 

Where  lofty  arch  and  glittering  spire 
Like  miracles  of  beauty  rise. 

Yet  here  beneath  this  humbler  roof 

With  reverent  hearts  and  lips  we  come ; 

Hail,  Music  !  Song  and  Beauty,  hail ! 

Henceforth  be  these  poor  walls  your  home. 

Here  speak  to  hearts  that  long  have  yearned 
Your  presence  and  your  spells  to  know; 

Here  touch  the  lips  athirst  to  drink 
Where  your  perennial  fountains  flow. 

Here  where  our  glorious  mountain-peaks 

Sublimely  pierce  the  ether  blue, 
Lift  ye  our  souls,  and  bid  them  rise 

In  aspirations  grand  and  true  ! 
IT 


I22  "LORD,  SAVE    OR   I  PERISH." 

O  Music,  Art,  and  Science,  hail ! 

We  greet  you  now  with  glad  acclaims ; 
Ye  bay-crowned  ones  !  the  listening  air 

Waits  to  re-echo  with  your  names; 

Waits  for  your  voices  ringing  clear 
Above  this  weary,  work-day  world  ; 

Waits  till  ye  bid  fair  Truth  arise, 

While  Error  from  her  throne  is  hurled  ! 


"LORD,    SAVE    OR   I    PERISH." 

THE  storm  is  loud,  and  wild  the  night ; 
O'erwhelmed  with  horror  and  affright, 
While  fierce  winds  toss  my  fragile  bark, 
I  cry  out  through  the  lonesome  dark, 
"  Save,  Lord,  or  I  perish  !" 

A  sailor  on  an  unknown  sea, 
No  human  skill  can  pilot  me ; 
Unless  Thou  art  my  guiding  star, 
How  can  I  reach  the  shore  afar? 

"Save,  Lord,  or  I  perish  !" 

Thou  who  didst  trembling  Peter  save, 
What  time  he  dared  the  treacherous  wave ; 
Thou  who  didst  bid  the  dead  arise, 
Thou  who  didst  open  sealed  eyes, 
"Save  me,  or  I  perish !" 


NEVER  AGAIN. 

When  in  the  wilderness  I  stray, 
To  fierce  temptation's  power  a  prey, 
Or  on  the  mountain-top  alone, 
With  pallid  lips  make  bitter  moan, 
"Save,  Lord,  or  I  perish!" 

When  worn  by  sorrow,  pain,  and  loss, 
I  sink  beneath  some  heavy  cross, 
And  faltering  in  my  dumb  despair 
Find  help  nor  succor  otherwhere, 
"  Save,  Thou,  or  I  perish  !" 

When  dragons  that  I  cannot  slay, 
Confront  me  hourly  in  the  way; 
When  cares  and  doubts  and  fears  oppress, 
And  Reason  mocks  at  my  distress, 
"Save,  Lord,  or  I  perish  !" 

And  when  I  reach  the  river's  brim, 
That  threads  the  valley  dark  and  dim, 
To  thee,  O  Christ,  I'll  lift  mine  eye, 
And  till  my  breath  shall  fail  me,  cry, 
"Lord,  save  or  I  perish!" 


123 


NEVER   AGAIN. 

NEVER  again — oh  !  nevermore 
Until  we  meet  on  the  other  shore  ! 

Never  again  !  for  us  two  between 
Lies  an  impassable  gulf  I  ween. 


124  NEVER  AGAIN. 

It  is  broad  and  deep ;  no  voice  can  come 
Over  its  darkness  cold  and  dumb ; 

Nor  sign  nor  token  may  ever  pass 
Across  its  desolate  void — alas  ! — 

To  bear  one  thought  from  thee  to  me ; 
Henceforth  we  are  parted,  utterly  ! 

Sometimes  I  wish  that  thou  wert  dead ; 
Then,  as  pilgrims  bow  their  tears  to  shed 

And  their  prayers  to  breathe  at  a  prophet's  shrine, 
I  could  kneel  at  thy  grave  and  offer  mine ! 

For  thou  wert  prophet  and  priest  to  me, 
Pointing  me  where  the  Good  might  be; 

Helping  my  weakness  with  thy  strength, 
Till  I  learned  to  stand  alone  at  length; 

And  then,  with  a  firm  and  a  steady  hand, 
Leading  me  on  towards  the  Promised  Land. 

Whether  a  thought  thou  dost  ever  cast 
Back  to  our  beautiful,  memoried  past, 

I  never  may  know,  until  our  souls 
Meet  where  Eternity's  broad  sea  rolls. 

It  well  may  be  that  thy  busy  brain 
Recks  little  of  memory's  joy  or  pain. 

One  of  the  world's  wise  workers  thou, 
Its  seal  of  care  is  upon  thy  brow. 


THE   NAME. 

Thou  hast  words  to  speak  with  lip  and  pen, 
Of  import  vast  to  thy  fellow-men ; 

And  the  current  of  life  is  swift  and  strong 
That  bears  thee  on  with  a  mighty  throng. 

But  I,  with  the  one  I  love  best  near, 
And  my  children's  voices  in  my  ear, 

Oft  think  with  a  pang  of  bitterest  pain 
Of  days  that  may  never  return  again  ! 


125 


THE    NAME. 

I  KNOW  not  by  what  name  to  call  thee,  thou 

Who  reignest  supreme,  sole  sovereign  of  my  heart ! 
Thou  who  the  lode-star  of  my  being  art, 

Thou  before  whom  my  soul  delights  to  bow ! 

What  shall  I  call  thee  ?     Teach  me  some  dear  name 
Better  than  all  the  rest,  that  I  may  pour 
All  that  the  years  have  taught  me  of  Love's  lore 

In  one  fond  word.      "  Lover?"    But  that's  too  tame, 

And  "Friend"  's  too  cold,  though  thou  art  both  to  me. 
Art  thou  my  King?    Kings  sit  enthroned  afar, 
And  crowns  less  meet  for  love  than  reverence  are, 

While  both  my  heart  gives  joyfully  to  thee. 
Art  thou — but,  ah  !  I'll  cease  the  idle  quest, 
I  cannot  tell  what  name  befits  thee  best ! 


ir 


I26  CHRISTMAS,    1863. 


LIFE. 

THERE  was  a  time  when  low  on  bended  knee 
With  outstretched  hand  and  wet,  uplifted  eye, 
I  cried,  "  O  Father  !  teach  me  how  to  die, 
And  give  me  strength  Death's  awful  face  to  see 
And  not  to  fear."     Henceforth  my  prayer  shall  be, 
"  Help  me  to  live."     Stern  Life  stalks  slowly  by, 
Relentless  and  inexorable.     No  cry 
For  help  or  pity  moveth  her,  as  she 
Gives  to  each  one  the  burden  of  the  day, 

Nor  heeds  the  limbs  that  bend  beneath  their  load. 
We  may  not  shrink  from  our  appointed  way 
Nor  pause  to  rest,  however  rough  the  road 
She  bids  us  walk  in.     Therefore  let  us  pray, 
"  Give  us  the  strength  we  need  to  live,  O  God !" 


CHRISTMAS,   1863. 

JESUS,  on  this  thy  blessed  natal  day, 
My  home  wears  not  its  wonted  fair  array; 
Nor  star,  nor  cross,  upon  its  walls  are  seen, 
Nor  wreath,  nor  garland,  of  the  freshest  green. 

No  merry,  childish  voices  make  it  ring 
With  joyful  shouts  of  Christmas  welcoming; 
Nor  softly  whisper,  as  they  pause  from  play, 
"Mother,  was  Jesus  truly  born  this  day?" 


CENTENNIAL   POEM. 

But  not  the  less  turns  my  full  heart  to  Thee; 
To-day,  O  Christ,  a  present  helper  be ; 
As  near  in  sorrow  as  in  joy  be  Thou, 
Accept  the  tribute  that  I  bring  Thee  now. 

And  not  the  less  would  I  on  this  glad  day, 
Low  at  thy  feet  my  grateful  homage  pay ; 

0  Babe  of  Bethlehem,  I  pause  to  hear 
The  angel  voices  chiming  sweet  and  clear. 

1  lift  my  eyes  to  seek  the  wondrous  star 
That  led  the  wise  men  from  their  home  afar; 
I  bend  with  them  in  humblest  awe  to  see 
The  Kingly  One  who  sat  on  Mary's  knee ! 

The  lowly,  meek,  yet  royal  One,  who  bore 
The  burden  of  the  Cross  till  life  was  o'er. 
O  Christ,  our  King,  half  mortal,  all  divine, 
Who  e'er  can  comprehend  such  love  as  thine? 


127 


CENTENNIAL   POEM. 

Written  for  the  One  Hundredth  Anniversary  of  the  Settlement  of  Mid- 
dlebury,  Vermont. 

July,  1866. 

O  MIGHTY  Present !  from  our  souls  to-day 
Unloose  thy  grasp  a  little  while,  we  pray; — 
Nor  frown  that  now  upon  another's  shrine 
We  lay  the  votive  wreaths  so  lately  thine. 


I2g  CENTENNIAL   POEM. 

We  are  not  fickle,  though  it  is  not  long 
Since  with  glad  harmony,  triumphant  song 
And  waving  banners,  the  exulting  throng 
Proclaimed   thee   monarch  —  crowned    thee   kingliest 

king- 
Lord  of  the  ages — mightiest  and  best 
Of  the  dead  years  that  in  their  pallid  rest 
Sleep  undisturbed,  though  loud  our  plaudits  ring ! 
We  are  not  fickle.     Grand,  heroic,  true, 
Faithful  and  brave  thine  earnest  work  to  do, 
O  glorious  Present !  we  rejoice  in  thee, 
Thou  noble  nurse  of  great  deeds  yet  to  be ! 
Hast  thou  not  shown  us  that  our  mother  Earth 
Still,  in  exultant  joy,  gives  heroes  birth? 
Do  not  the  old  romances  that  our  youth 
Revered  and  honored  as  the  truest  truth, 
Grow  pale  and  dim  before  the  facts  sublime 
Thy  pen  has  written  on  the  scroll  of  Time? 

Ah !  never  yet  did  poet's  tongue, 

Though  like  a  silver  bell  it  rung, 

Or  minstrel,  o'er  his  sounding  lyre 

Breathing  the  old,  prophetic  fire, 

Or  harper,  in  the  storied  walls 

Of  Scotia's  proud,  baronial  halls — 

Where  mail-clad  men  with  sword  and  spear, 

Waited  entranced  the  song  to  hear, 

That  through  the  stormy  midnight  hour, 

Fast  held  them  in  its  spell  of  power, — 

Ah !  never  yet  did  they  rehearse 

In  flowing  rhyme,  or  stately  verse, 

The  praise  of  deeds  more  nobly  done, 

Or  tell  of  fields  more  grandly  won  ! 
We  laud  thee,  we  praise  thee,  we  bless  thee  to-day ! 
At  thy  feet,  lowly  bending,  glad. homage  we  pay! 


CENTENNIAL   POEM. 


129 


Thou  hast  taught  us  that  men  are  as  brave  as  of  yore ; 

That  the  day  of  great  deeds  and  great  thought  is  not  o'er; 

That  the  courage  undaunted,  the  far-reaching  faith, 

The  strength  that  unshaken  looks  calmly  on  death, 

The  self-abnegation  that  hastens  to  lay 

Its  all  on  the  altar,  have  not  passed  away. 

Thou  hast  taught  us  that  ' '  country' '  is  more  than  a  name ; 

That  honor  unsullied  is  better  than  fame ; 

Thou  hast  proved  that  while  man  can  still  battle  for  truth, 

Even  boyhood  can  give  up  the  promise  of  youth, 

And  yielding  its  life  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh, 

Say,  "'Tis  sweet  for  my  God  and  my  country  to  die." 

O  heart-searching  Present,  thy  sons  have  gone  down 

To  the  night  of  the  grave  in  their  day  of  renown ! 

Thy  daughters  have  watched  by  the  hearthstone  in  vain, 

For  the  loved  and  the  lost  that  returned  not  again. 

No  Spartans  were  they, — yet  'mid  tears  falling  fast, 

Their  faith  and  their  patience  endured  to  the  last; 

And  God  gave  them  strength  to  their  kindred  to  say, 

"Go  ye  forth  to  the  fight,  while  we  labor  and  pray!" 

Thou  hast  opened  thy  coffers  on  land  and  on  sea; 

And  broad-handed  Charity,  noble  and  free, 

Has  lavished  thy  bounties  on  friend  and  on  foe, 

Like  the  rain  that  descending,  falls  softly  and  slow 

On  the  just  and  the  unjust,  and  never  may  know 

The  one  from  the  other.     When  thy  story  is  told 

By  some  age  that  looks  backward  and  calls  thee  "the 

otd," 

It  shall  puzzle  its  sages,  all  great  as  thou  art, 
To  tell  which  was  greatest,  thy  head  or  thy  heart ! 

Mighty  words  thy  lips  have  spoken, — 

Strongest  fetters  thou  hast  broken, — 

And  in  tones  like  those  of  thunder, 

When  the  clouds  are  rent  asunder, 


130  CENTENNIAL   POEM. 

Thou  hast  made  the  Nations  hear  thee,— 
Thou  hast  bade  the  Tyrants  fear  thee, — 
And  our  hearts  to-day  proclaim  thee, 

As  they  oft  have  done  before, 
Fit  to  lead  the  glorious  legions 

Of  the  glorious  days  of  yore ! 
Yet  still,  we  pray  thee,  veil  awhile 

Thy  splendor  from  our  dazzled  eyes 
And  hide  the  glory  of  thy  smile, 

Lest  our  souls  wake  to  new  surprise ! 
Bear  with  us  while  our  feet  to-day 
Retrace  a  dim  and  shadowy  way, 
In  search  of  what,  it  well  may  be, 
Shall  help  to  make  us  worthier  thee ! 


And  now,  O  spirit  of  the  Past,  draw  near, 

And  let  us  feel  thy  blessed  presence  here ! 

With  reverent  hearts  and  voices  hushed  and  low, 

We  wait  to  hear  thy  garments'  rustling  flow ! 

From  all  the  conflicts  of  our  busy  life, 

From  all  its  bitter  and  enduring  strife, 

Its  eager  yearnings  and  its  wild  turmoil, 

Its  cares,  its  joys,  its  sorrows,  and  its  toil, 

Its  aspirations  that  too  often  seem 

Like  the  remembered  phantoms  of  a  dream, 

We  turn  aside.     This  hour  is  thine  alone, 

And  none  shall  share  the  grandeur  of  thy  throne. 

Ah !  thou  art  here !     Beneath  these  whispering  trees, 

Thy  breath  floats  softly  on  the  passing  breeze; 

We  feel  the  presence  that  we  cannot  see, 

And  every  moment  draws  us  nearer  thee. 

Could  we  but  see  thee,  with  thy  solemn  eyes 

In  whose  rare  depths  such  wondrous  meaning  lies, — 


CENTENNIAL    POEM.  I 

Thy  dark  robes  sweeping  this  enchanted  ground, — 

Thy  midnight  hair  with  purple  pansies  crowned, — 

Thy  lip  so  sadly  sweet,  thy  brow  serene ! 

There  is  no  expectation  in  thy  mien, 

For  thou  hast  done  with  dreams.     Nor  joy  nor  pain 

Can  e'er  disturb  thy  placid  calm  again. 

What  is  this  veil  that  hides  thee  from  our  sight? 

Breathe  it  away,  thou  spirit  darkly  bright ! 
It  may  not  be !     Our  eyes  are  dim, 

Perhaps  with  age,  perhaps  with  tears ; 
We  hear  no  more  the  choral  hymn 

The  angels  sing  among  the  spheres. 
Weary  and  worn  and  tempest-tossed, 
Much  have  we  gained — and  something  lost — 
Since  in  the  sunbeams  golden  glow, 
The  rippling  brooklet's  silvery  flow, 
The  song  of  bird  or  murmuring  bee, 
The  fragrant  flower,  the  stately  tree, 
The  royal  pomp  of  sunset  skies, 
And  all  earth's  varied  harmonies, 
We  saw  and  heard  what  nevermore 
Can  Earth  or  Heaven  to  us  restore, 
And  felt  a  child's  unquestioning  faith 
In  childhood's  mystic  lore! 


A  hundred  times  the  Summer's  fragrant  blooms 
Have  laden  all  the  air  with  sweet  perfumes, — 
A  hundred  times  along  the  mountain-side, 
Autumn  has  flung  his  crimson  banners  wide, — 
A  hundred  times  has  kindly  Winter  spread 
His  snowy  mantle  o'er  the  violet's  bed, — 
A  hundred  times  has  Earth  rejoiced  to  hear 
The  Spring's  light  footsteps  in  the  forest  sere, 


132 


CENTENNIAL   POEM. 


Since  on  yon  grassy  knoll  the  quick,  sharp  stroke 

Of  the  young  woodman's  axe  the  silence  broke. 

Not  then  did  these  encircling  hills  look  down 

On  quaint  old  farmhouse,  or  on  steepled  town. 

No  church-spires  pointed  to  the  arching  skies; 

No  wandering  lovers  saw  the  moon  arise; 

No  childish  laughter  mingled  with  the  song 

Of  the  fair  Otter,  as  it  flowed  along 

As  brightly  then  as  now.     Ah !  little  recked 

The  joyous  river,  when  the  sunshine  flecked 

Its  dancing  wavelets,  that  no  human  eye 

Gave  it  glad  welcome  as  it  frolicked  by! 

The  long,  uncounted  years  had  come  and  flown, 

And  it  had  still  swept  on,  unseen,  unknown, 

Biding  its  time.     No  minstrel  sang  its  praise, 

No  poet  named  it  in  immortal  lays. 

It  played  no  part  in  legendary  lore, 

And  young  Romance  knew  not  its  winding  shore. 

But  in  her  own  loveliness  Nature  is  glad, 

And  little  she  cares  for  man's  smile  or  his  frown; 
In  the  robes  of  her  royalty  still  she  is  clad, 

Though  his  eye  may  behold  not  her  sceptre  or  crown ! 
And  over  our  beautiful  Otter  the  trees 
Swayed  lightly  as  now  in  the  frolicsome  breeze ; 
And  the  meek  little  violet  lifted  an  eye, 
As  blue  as  its  own,  to  the  laughing  blue  sky. 

The  harebell  trembled  on  its  stem 

Down  where  the  rushing  waters  gleam, 

A  sapphire  on  the  broidered  hem 
Of  some  fair  Naiad  of  the  stream. 

The  buttercups,  bright-eyed  and  bold, 

Held  up  their  chalices  of  gold 

To  catch  the  sunshine  and  the  dew, 

Gayly  as  those  that  bloom  for  you. 


CENTENNIAL   POEM. 

And  deep  within  the  forest  shade, 

Where  broadest  noon  mere  twilight  made, 

Ten  thousand  small,  sweet  censers  swung, 

And  tiny  bells  by  Zephyrs  rung, 

Made  tinkling  music  till  the  day 

In  solemn  splendor  died  away. 

The  woods  were  full  of  praise  and  prayer, 

Although  no  human  tongue  was  there ; 

For  every  pine  and  hemlock  sung 

The  grand  cathedral  aisles  among, 

And  every  flower  that  gemmed  the  sod 

Looked  up  and  whispered,  "Thou  art  God. 

The  birds  sung  as  they  sing  to-day, 

A  song  of  love  and  joy  alway. 

The  brown  thrush  from  its  golden  throat 

Poured  out  its  long,  melodious  note; 

The  pigeons  cooed ;  the  veery  threw 

Its  mellow  trill  from  spray  to  spray ; 

The  wild  night-hawk  its  trumpet  blew, 

And  the  owl  cried,  "tu  whit,  tu  whoo," 

From  set  of  sun  to  break  of  day. 

The  partridge  reared  her  fearless  brood 

Safe  in  the  darkling  solitude, 

And  the  bald  eagle  built  its  nest 

High  on  the  tall  cliff's  craggy  crest. 

And  often,  when  the  still  moonlight 

Made  all  the  lonely  valley  bright, 

Down  from  the  hills  its  thirst  to  slake, 

The  deer  trod  softly  through  the  brake ; 

While  far  away  the  spotted  fawn 

Waited  the  coming  of  the  dawn, 

And  trembled  when  the  panther's  scream 

Startled  it  from  a  troubled  dream. 


I34  CENTENNIAL    POEM. 

The  black  bear  roamed  the  forest  wide ; 

The  fierce  wolf  tracked  the  mountain-side  ; 

The  wild  cat's  silent,  stealthy  tread 

Was,  even  there,  a  fear  and  dread ; 

The  red  fox  barked, — a  strange,  weird  sound, 

That  woke  the  slumbering  echoes  round ; 

And  the  burrowing  mink  and  otter  hid 

In  their  holes  the  tangled  roots  amid. 

Lords  of  their  limitless  domain, 

Of  hill  and  dale,  of  mount  and  plain, 

The  wild  things  dreamed  not  of  the  hour 

When  they  should  own  their  Master's  power. 

But  he  came  at  last  !     With  a  sturdy  hand, 
And  a  voice  of  deep  and  stern  command, 
And  an  eye  that  looked  upon  friend  and  foe 
With  the  spell  of  strength  in  its  kindling  glow ; 
With  a  stately  presence,  a  mien  that  told 
That  his  heart  was  as  true  as  it  was  bold, 
He  came  to  his  own,  and  proclaimed  his  sway, 
And  the  forest  fled  from  his  glance  away ! 
The  rightful  heir  of  the  regions  round, 
No  golden  circlet  his  forehead  crowned, 
But  he  wore  his  youth  with  a  kingly  grace, 
As  he  proudly  stepped  to  his  destined  place. 
Never  a  royal  couch  had  he, 
But  he  made  his  bed  'neath  a  greenwood  tree, 
And  a  simple  garb  of  homespun  brown 
Round  the  brave  young  limbs  was  folded  down. 
Blithely  the  days  and  the  years  sped  on  ; 
The  meed  of  his  toil  at  length  was  won — 
A  home  in  the  wilderness,  fair  and  sweet, 
Where  the  hill  and  the  winding  river  meet. 
Ah  !  blest  was  he,  when  the  silent  stars, 
Peering  from  out  their  cloudy  bars, 


CENTENNIAL   POEM.  I 

Looked  down  on  the  lowly  cot  that  stood 

Deep  in  the  virgin  solitude ; 

And  saw  the  cabin  windows  gleam 

In  the  pleasant  hearthfire's  ruddy  beam, 

While  the  children  laughed,  and  the  mother  sang 

Till  the  walls  with  the  merry  music  rang ! 

A  hundred  years  !     A  century  of  change — 
A  century  of  progress  vast  and  strange ! 
Ah  !  could  the  dust  that  under  yonder  sod 
In  patient  hope  awaits  the  voice  of  God, 
Wearing  the  hues  of  ruddy  life  again 
Come  forth  to  mingle  with  its  fellow-men, 
How  would  the  earnest,  thoughtful,  questioning  eyes 
Find  marvels  everywhere  !     In  earth  and  skies ; 
On  the  broad  seas,  and  where  the  prairies  pour 
Their  overflowing  wealth  from  shore  to  shore  ;m 
Where  the  Black  Horses,  with  their  eyes  of  fire, 
Scale  the  high  mountains,  panting  with  desire, 
Or  thundering  down  the  valleys,  onward  sweep 
With  long,  persistent  strides  from  steep  to  steep ; 
Or  where  the  lightning  hastes,  with  eager  thrill, 
To  do  man's  bidding,  and  perform  his  will. 

Yet  could  our  voices  reach  the  slumbering  dead 
Who  rest  so  calmly  in  yon  grass-grown  bed, 
This  truth  would  seem  with  greatest  wonder  fraught, 
That  they  are  heroes  to  our  eyes  and  thought. 
For  they  were  men  who  never  dreamed  of  fame : 
They  did  not  toil  to  make  themselves  a  name : 
They  little  fancied  that  when  years  had  passed, 
And  the  long  century  had  died  at  last, 
Another  age  should  make  their  graves  a  shrine, 
And  humble  chaplets  for  their  memory  twine. 


136 


CENTENNIAL   POEM. 


They  simply  strove,  as  other  men  may  strive, 
Full,  earnest  lives  in  sober  strength  to  live; 
They  did  the  duty  nearest  to  their  hand ; 
Subdued  wild  nature  as  at  God's  command; 
Laid  the  broad  acres  open  to  the  sun, 
And  made  fair  homes  in  forests  dark  and  dun ; 
Built  churches,  founded  schools,  established  laws, 
Kindly  and  just  and  true  to  freedom's  cause; 
Resisted  wrong,  and  with  stout  hands  and  hearts, 
In  war,  as  well  as  peace,  played  well  their  parts. 
Their  men  were  brave;  their  women  pure  and  true; 
Their  sons  ashamed  no  honest  work  to  do ; 
And  while  they  dreamed  no  dreams  of  being  great, 
They  did  great  deeds,  and  conquered  hostile  Fate. 
We  laud  them,  we  praise  them,  we  bless  them  to-day ; 
At  their  graves,  as  their  right,  tearful  homage  we  pay  ! 
And  the  laurel-crowned  Present  comes  humbly  at  last, 
And  bends  by  our  side  at  the  shrine  of  the  Past. 
With  the  hands  that  such  burdens  unshrinking  have  borne, 
From  the  brow  weary  cares  have  so  furrowed  and  worn, 
She  takes  off  the  chaplet,  and  lays  it  with  tears, 
That  she  cares  not  to  hide,  at  the  feet  of  the  Years. 
Hark !  a  breath  of  faint  music,  a  murmur  of  song  ! 
A  form  of  strange  beauty  is  floating  along 
On  the  soft  summer  air,  and  the  Future  draws  near, 
With  a  light  on  her  young  face,  unshadowed  and  clear. 
Two  garlands  she  bears  in  the  arms  that  not  yet 
Have  toiled  'neath  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day; 
Lo !  both  are  of  Amaranth,  fragrant  and  wet 
With  the  dew  of  remembrance,  and  fadeless  alway. 
Oh !  well  may  we  hush  our  vain  babblings — and  wait ! 
He  who  merits  the  crown,  wears  it  sooner  or  late  ! 
On  the  brow  of  the  Present,  the  grave  of  the  Past, 
The  wreaths  they  have  earned  shall  rest  surely  at  last ' 


THE    THREE  SHIPS. 


THE    THREE    SHIPS. 

OVER  the  waters  clear  and  dark 
Flew,  like  a  startled  bird,  our  bark. 

All  the  day  long  with  steady  sweep 
Seagulls  followed  us  over  the  deep. 

Weird  and  strange  were  the  silent  shores, 
Rich  with  their  wealth  of  buried  ores; 

Mighty  the  forests,  old  and  gray, 

With  the  secrets  locked  in  their  hearts  away ; 

Semblance  of  castle  and  arch  and  shrine 
Towered  aloft  in  the  clear  sunshine ; 

And  we  watched  for  the  warder,  stern  and  grim, 
And  the  priest  with  his  chanted  prayer  and  hymn. 

Over  that  wonderful  northern  sea, 

As  one  who  sails  in  a  dream,  sailed  we, 

Till,  when  the  young  moon  soared  on  high, 
Nothing  was  round  us  but  sea  and  sky. 

Far  in  the  east  the  pale  moon  swung, — 
A  crescent  dim  in  the  azure  hung ; 

I  2* 


138  THE    THREE  SHIPS. 

But  the  sun  lay  low  in  the  glowing  west, 
With  bars  of  purple  across  his  breast. 

The  skies  were  aflame  with  the  sunset  glow, 
The  billows  were  all  aflame  below ; 

The  far  horizon  seemed  the  gate 

To  some  mystic  world's  enchanted  state; 

And  all  the  air  was  a  luminous  mist, 
Crimson  and  amber  and  amethyst. 

Then  silently  into  that  fiery  sea — 
Into  the  heart  of  the  mystery- 
Three  ships  went  sailing,  one  by  one, 
The  fairest  visions  under  the  sun. 

Like  the  flame  in  the  heart  of  a  ruby  set 
Were  the  sails  that  flew  from  each  mast  of  jet ; 

While  darkly  against  the  burning  sky 
Streamer  and  pennant  floated  high. 

Steadily,  silently,  on  they  pressed 
Into  the  glowing,  reddening  west ; 

Until,  on  the  far  horizon's  fold, 

They  slowly  passed  through  its  gate  of  gold. 

You  think,  perhaps,  they  were  nothing  more 
Than  schooners  laden  with  common  ore? 

Where  Care  clasped  hands  with  grimy  Toil, 
And  the  decks  were  stained  with  earthly  moil  ? 


THE    THREE   SHIPS. 

Oh,  beautiful  ships,  who  sailed  that  night 
Into  the  west  from  our  yearning  sight, 

Full  well  I  know  that  the  freight  ye  bore 
Was  laden  not  for  an  earthly  shore  ! 

To  some  far  realm  ye  were  sailing  on, 
Where  all  we  have  lost  shall  yet  be  won ; 

Ye  were  bearing  thither  a  world  of  dreams, 
Bright  as  that  sunset's  golden  gleams; 

And  hopes  whose  tremulous,  rosy  flush, 
Grew  fairer  still  in  the  twilight  hush. 

Ye  were  bearing  hence  to  that  mystic  sphere 
Thoughts  no  mortal  may  utter  here, — 

Songs  that  on  earth  may  not  be  sung, — 
Words  too  holy  for  human  tongue, — 

The  golden  deeds  that  we  would  have  done, — 
The  fadeless  wreaths  that  we  would  have  won ! 

And  hence  it  was  that  our  souls  with  you 
Traversed  the  measureless  waste  of  blue, 

Till  you  passed  under  the  sunset  gate, 
And  to  us  a  voice  said,  softly,  "Wait !" 


140 


THE    GHOST. 


THE   GHOST. 

WANDERING  on  where  the  .smiling  river 

Winds  through  the  fields  to  the  steepled  town ; 
Pausing  now  where  the  aspens  quiver, 

Now  where  the  hazel-nuts  are  brown ; 
Lingering  under  the  solemn  arches, 

Lifted  against  the  far  blue  skies, 
Where  the  pines  and  the  feathery  larches 

Cross  their  boughs  as  they  soaring  rise; 

Loitering  long  where  sudden  glimmers 

Tell  that  the  mill-wheels  plash  and  play 
Under  the  bank,  like  sturdy  swimmers, 

Tossing  the  surf  and  the  silvery  spray ; 
Threading  the  path  through  the  daisied  meadow 

Down  to  the  dell  so  dark  and  cool, 
Where  in  the  hemlock's  fragrant  shadow 

Harebells  nod  by  the  drowsy  pool ; 

In  at  the  school-house  windows  peering, — 

Reading  the  names  on  the  whitewashed  wall ; 
And  in  the  shadowy  stillness  hearing 

Voices  that  now  are  silent  all ; 
Then  at  last  in  the  chancel  olden 

Kneeling  down  with  a  wordless  prayer, 
While  the  glow  of  a  sunset  golden 

Falls  like  a  benediction  there. 


"INTO    THY  HANDS."  1 41 

Out  again  where  the  twilight  splendor 

Flushes  the  hill-tops  ere  it  dies, — 
Watching  the  young  stars,  pure  and  tender, 

Opening  softly  their  lustrous  eyes; 
Wondering  if  in  its  wonted  glory 

Yon  moon  rises  behind  the  pines, — 
If  it  repeats  the  same  old  story 

As  with  the  olden  light  it  shines ! 

Ah,  my  friend !  I  have  not  been  lonely 

Wandering  thus  through  the  livelong  day; 
One  revealed  to  my  senses  only 

Has  been  with  me  all  the  day ! 
If  I  mused  in  the  grassy  hollow, 

Shook  the  nuts  from  the  beechen  tree, 
Or  watched  the  flight  of  the  skimming  swallow, 

The  ghost  of  my  childhood  walked  with  me ! 


"INTO   THY   HANDS." 

INTO  thy  hands,  O  Father !  Now  at  last, 

Weary  with  struggling  and  with  long  unrest, 

Vext  by  remembrances  of  conflicts  past 
And  by  a  host  of  present  cares  opprest, 

I  come  to  thee  and  cry,  Thy  will  be  done ! 

Take  thou  the  burden  I  have  borne  too  long ; 
Into  thy  hands,  O  mighty,  loving  One, 

My  weakness  gives  its  all,  for  thou  art  strong ! 


142  DECEMBER  26,    1910. 

For  life — for  death.     I  cannot  see  the  way; 

I  blindly  wander  on  to  meet  the  night; 
The  path  grows  steeper,  and  the  dying  day 

Soon  with  its  shadows  will  shut  out  the  light. 

Hold  thou  my  hand,  O  Father !  I  am  tired 
As  a  young  child  that  wearies  of  the  road ; 

And  the  far  heights  towards  which  I  once  aspire  1, 
Have  lost  the  glory  with  which  erst  they  glowed. 

Take  thou  my  life,  and  mould  it  to  thy  will ; 

Into  thy  hands  commit  I  all  my  way; 
Fain-  would  I  lift  each  cup  that  thou  dost  fill, 

Nor  from  its  brim  my  pale  lips  ever  stay. 

Take  thou  my  life.     I  lay  it  at  thy  feet ; 

And  in  my  death  my  sure  support  be  thou ; 
So  shall  I  sink  to  slumber  calm  and  sweet, 

And  wake  at  morn  before  thy  face  to  bow ! 


DECEMBER   26,    1910. 

A    BALLAD    OF    MAJOR    ANDERSON. 

COME,  children,  leave  your  playing  this  dark  and  stormy 

night , 
Shut  fast  the  rattling  window-blinds,  and  make  the  fire 

burn  bright; 
And  hear  an  old  man's  story,  while  loud  the  fierce  winds 

blow, 
Of  gallant  Major  Anderson  and  fifty  years  ago. 


DECEMBER  26,    1910.  !43 

I  was  a  young  man  then,  boys,  but  twenty-nine  years 

old, 
And  all  my  comrades  knew  me  for  a  soldier  brave  and 

bold; 
My  eye  was  bright,  my  step  was  firm,  I  measured  six  feet 

two, 
And  I  knew  not  what  it  was  to  shirk  when  there  was  work 

to  do. 

We  were  stationed  at  Fort  Moultrie,  in  Charleston  harbor, 

then, 
A  brave  band,  though  a  small  one,  of  scarcely  seventy 

men; 

And  day  and  night  we  waited  for  the  coming  of  the  foe, 
With  noble  Major  Anderson,  just  fifty  years  ago. 

Were  they  French  or  English,  ask  you?     Oh,  neither, 

neither,  child ! 
We  were  at  peace  with  other  lands,  and  all  the  nations 

smiled 
On  the  stars  and  stripes,  wherever  they  floated  far  and 

free, 
And  all  the  foes  we  had  to  meet  we  found  this  side  the  sea. 

But  even  between  brothers  bitter -feuds  will  sometimes 

rise, 
And  'twas  the  cloud  of  civil  war  that  darkened  in  the 

skies ; 

I  have  not  time  to  tell  you  how  the  quarrel  first  began, 
Or  how  it  grew,  till  o'er  our  land  the  strife  like  wildfire 

ran. 

I  will  not  use  hard  words,  my  boys,  for  I  am  old  and  gray, 
And  I've  learned  it  is  an  easy  thing  for  the  best  to  go 
astray ; 


144  DECEMBER  26,    1910. 

Some  wrong  there  was  on  either  part,  I  do  not  doubt  at 

all; 
There  are  two  sides  to  a  quarrel — be  it  great  or  be  it 

small! 

But  yet,  when  South  Carolina  laid  her  sacrilegious  hand 
On  the  altar  of  a  Union  that  belonged  to  ALL  the  land; 
When  she  tore  our  glorious  banner  down  and  trailed  it  in 

the  dust, 
Every  patriot's  heart  and  conscience  bade  him  guard  the 

sacred  trust. 

You  scarce  believe  me,  children.     Grief  and  doubt  are  in 

your  eyes, 

Fixed  steadily  upon  me  in  wonder  and  surprise; 
Don't  forget  to  thank  our  Father,  when  to-night  you  kneel 

to  pray, 
That  an  undivided  people  rule  Arherica  to-day. 

We  were  stationed  at  Fort  Moultrie, — but  about  a  mile 

away, 

The  battlements  of  Sumter  stood  proudly  in  the  bay; 
'Twas  by  far  the  best  position,  as  he  could  not  help  but 

know, 
Our  gallant  Major  Anderson,  just  fifty  years  ago. 

Yes,  'twas  just  after  Christmas,  fifty  years  ago  to-night; 
The  sky  was  calm  and  cloudless,  the  moon  was  large  and 

bright; 

At  six  o'clock  the  drum  beat  to  call  us  to  parade, 
And  not  a  man  suspected  the  plan  that  had  been  laid. 

But  the  first  thing  a  soldier  learns  is  that  he  must  obey, 
And  that  when  an  order's  given  he  has  not  a  word  to  say; 


DECEMBER  26,    1910.  I4,j 

So  when  told  to  man  the  boats,  not  a  question  did  we  ask, 
But  silently,  yet  eagerly,  began  our  hurried  task. 

We  did  a  deal  of  work  that  night,  though  our  numbers 

were  but  few; 

We  had  all  our  stores  to  carry,  and  our  ammunition  too ; 
And  the  guard-ship — 'twas  the  Nina — set  to  watch  us  in 

the  bay, 
Never  dreamed  what  we  were  doing,  though  'twas  almost 

light  as  day. 

We  spiked  the  guns  we  left  behind,  and  cut  the  flag-staff 

down, — 
From  its  top  should  float  no  colors  if  it  might  not  hold  our 

own, — 

Then  we  sailed  away  for  Sumter  as  fast  as  we  could  go, 
With  our  good  Major  Anderson,  just  fifty  years  ago. 

I  never  can  forget,  my  boys,  how  the  next  day,  at  noon, 
The  drums  beat  and  the  band  played  a  stirring  martial 

tune, 
And  silently  we  gathered  round  the  flag-staff,  strong  and 

high, 
Forever  pointing  upward  to  God's  temple  in  the  sky. 

Our  noble  Major  Anderson  was  good  as  he  was  brave, 
And  he  knew  without  His  blessing  no  banner  long  could 

wave; 
So  he  knelt,  with  head  uncovered,  while  the  chaplain  read 

a  prayer, 
And  as  the  last  amen  was  said,  the  flag  rose  high  in  air. 

Then  our  loud  huzzas  5  ang  out,  far  and  widely  o'er  the  sea ! 
We  shouted  for  the  stars  and  stripes,  the  standard  of  the 
free! 

13 


146  FROM  BATON  ROUGE. 

Every  eye  was  fixed  upon  it,  every  heart  beat  warm  and 

fast,      . 
As  with  eager  lips  we  promised  to  defend  it  to  the  last ! 

'Twas  a  sight  to  be  remembered,  boys, — the  chaplain  with 
his  book, 

Our  leader  humbly  kneeling,  with  his  calm,  undaunted 
look; 

And  the  officers  and  men,  crushing  tears  they  would  not 
shed, — 

And  the  blue  sea  all  around  us,  and  the  blue  sky  over 
head  ! 

Now,  go  to  bed,  my  children,  the  old  man's  story's  told, — 
Stir  up  the  fire  before  you  go,  'tis  bitter,  bitter  cold; 
And  I'll  tell  you  more  to-morrow  night,  when  loud  the 

fierce  winds  blow, 
Of  gallant  Major  Anderson  and  fifty  years  ago. 


FROM  BATON  ROUGE. 

FROM  the  fierce  conflict  and  the  deadly  fray 
A  patriot  hero  comes  to  us  this  day. 

Greet  him  with  music  and  with  loud  acclaim, 
And  let  our  hills  re-echo  with  his  name. 

Bring  rarest  flowers  their  rich  perfume  to  shed, 
Like  sweetest  incense,  round  the  warrior's  head. 

Let  heart  and  voice  cry  "welcome,"  and  a  shout, 
Upon  the  summer  air,  ring  gayly  out, 


FROM  BATON  ROUGE.  147 

To  hail  the  hero,  who  from  fierce  affray 
And  deadly  conflict  comes  to  us  this  day. 

Alas !  alas !  for  smiles  ye  give  but  tears, 
And  wordless  sorrow  on  each  face  appears. 

And  for  glad  music,  jubilant  and  clear, 
The  tolling  bell,  the  muffled  drum,  we  hear. 

Woe  to  us,  soldier,  loyal,  tried,  and  brave, 
That  we  have  naught  to  give  thee  but  a  grave. 

Woe  that  the  wreath  that  should  have  decked  thy  brow, 
Can  but  be  laid  upon  thy  coffin  now. 

Woe  that  thou  canst  not  hear  us  when  we  say, — 
"Hail  to  thee,  brother,  welcome  home  to  day!" 

O  God,  we  lift  our  waiting  eyes  to  Thee, 
And  sadly  cry,  how  long  must  these  things  be? 

How  long  must  noble  blood  be  poured  like  rain, 
Flooding  our  land  from  mountain  unto  main? 

How  long  from  desolated  hearths  must  rise 
The  smoke  of  life's  most  costly  sacrifice? 

Our  brothers  languish  upon  beds  of  pain, — 
Father,  O  Father,  have  they  bled  in  vain? 

Is  it  for  naught  that  they  have  drunken  up 
The  very  dregs  of  this  most  bitter  cup? 

How  long?  how  long?  O  God!  our  cause  is  just, 
And  in  Thee  only  do  we  put  our  trust. 


I48  THE    VERMONT   VOLUNTEERS. 

As  Thou  didst  guide  the  Israelites  of  old 

Through  the  Red  Sea,  and  through  the  desert  wold, 

Lead  Thou  our  leaders,  and  our  land  shall  be 

For  evermore,  the  land  where  all  are  free ! 

****** 

Hail  and  farewell, — we  whisper  in  one  breath, 
As  thus  we  meet  thee,  hand  in  hand  with  death  ! 

God  give  thy  ashes  undisturbed  repose 

Where  drum-beat  wakens  neither  friend  nor  foes ; 

God  take  thy  spirit  to  eternal  rest, 

And,  for  Christ's  sake,  enroll  thee  with  the  blest ! 


THE    VERMONT   VOLUNTEERS. 
1863. 

FOUR  years,  four  little  years  ago,  through  all  our  sunny 
land, 

Sat  wives  and  mothers,  calmly  blessed,  beside  each  house 
hold  band ; 

And  still  the  bright  days  glided  on,  and  quiet  nights 
dropped  down, 

Wrapping  in  one  soft  web  of  dreams,  cot,  hamlet,  vale, 
and  town. 

Our  sturdy  husbands  held  the  plow,  or  cast  the  shining 

grain ; 
Our  sons  and  brothers  gayly  toiled  on  hill-side  and  on 

plain ; 


THE    VERMONT   VOLUNTEERS.  149 

At  forge  and  anvil,  mill  and  loom,  in  all  the  marts  of 

trade, 
And  where  primeval  forests  throw  a  grand,  eternal  shade. 

They  raised  the  marble  from  its  bed,  upon  the  mountain 
side  ; 

•They  joyed  through  wild  and  devious  paths,  the  iron  horse 
to  guide ; 

And  some  of  studious  eye  and  brow,  labored  with  tongue 
and  pen, 

Breathing  high  words  of  lofty  cheer,  to  bless  their  fellow- 
men. 

But  sometimes  as  we  sat  at  ease,  in  that  serenest  air, 
We  wondered  if  brave  hearts  and  bold,  found  fitting  nur 
ture  there ; 

We  wondered  if  our  mountaineers  were  valiant  as  of  old, — 
If  "cloth  of  frieze"  were  still  found  matched,  with  cost 
liest  "cloth  of  gold." 

And,  haply,  earnest  souls,  when  thrilled  by  some  quaint, 

olden  story, 
The  ages  have  brought  down  to  us,  haloed  with  solemn 

glory, 
Sighed  for  the  grand,  heroic  days,  they  thought  forever 

past, 
And  deemed  the  present  cold  and  tame,  prosaic  to  the 

last. 

And  cheeks  of  maidens  flushed  and  paled,  as  deeply  pon 
dering  o'er 

Some  page  of  old  romance,  or  tale  of  legendary  lore, 

13* 


iqo  THE   VERMONT   VOLUNTEERS. 

\ 

They  read  of  tilt  and  tournament,  and  fields  of  daring 

high, 
Where  knights  for  ladies'  love  were  proud,  nobly  to  do  or 

die. 

A  bugle  blast  rang  through  the  land,  a  war-cry  loud  and 

shrill ; 
Each  mountain  peak  caught  up  the  strain,  hill  sent  it  back 

to  hill; 
"  To  arms !  to  arms !  ye  stalwart  men,  for  freedom  and 

for  God, 
And  tread  yourselves  the  glorious  paths  your  noble  sires 

once  trod !" 

Ah  !  were  they  false  or  craven  then  ?  or  lagged  they  by 

the  way? 

We  talk  not  now  of  Marathon,  nor  "old  Platea's  day;" 
We  speak  not  of  Leonidas,  nor  of  Thermopylae, 
Where  Persian  thousands  poured  their  blood,  a  dark,  en- 
crimsoned  sea. 

Nor  do  we  tell,  with  tremulous  lip,  how  Spartan  mothers 
bade 

Their  sons  go  out  to  meet  the  foe,  with  strong  hearts  un 
dismayed, 

And  sternly  told  them  to  come  back,  "bearing  their 
shields  or  on  them," — 

Our  boys  went  forth  without  their  shields,  to  bloody  fields, 
and  won  them  ! 

Oh  !  paled  for  us  the  golden  light  of  all  the  old  romances  ! 
True  heroism  does  not  die,  as  age  on  age  advances; 
We  know  the  story  of  to-day  has  all  the  old-time  splendor, 
And  that  men's  hearts  are  bold  and  brave,  as  they  are 
true  and  tender  ! 


THE   VERMONT   VOLUNTEERS.  15  j 

That  fearful  charge  at  Lee's  Mills,  across  the  rushing  river, 
Where  they  saw  in  lines  of  rifle-pits  the  foemen's  bayonets 

quiver, 

While  cannon  thundered  over  them — the  men  at  Balaklava, 
So  famed  in  story  and  in  song,  did  nothing  any  braver. 

At  Bethel  and  Manassas,  from  Yorktown  on,  to  where 
The  swamps  of  Chickahominy  poured  death  upon  the  air ; 
On  the  deadly  field  of  Antietam  and  many  a  one  beside, 
Our  brave  boys  wrote  their  names  in  blood, — then  cheered 
the  flag  and  died. 

At  Fredericksburg  and  Marye's  Hill  and  Gettysburg  they 

bore 

Their  colors  bravely  in  the  front  until  the  strife  was  o'er; 
At  Baton  Rouge  brave  Roberts  fell,  bleeding  from  many 

a  wound, 
At  Newbern  noble  Jarvis  poured  his  life-blood  on  the 

ground. 

Ye  tried,  and  true,  and  loyal  ones,  what  words  of  mine 

can  tell 
How  in  your  country's  inmost  heart,  your  memories  shall 

dwell? 

The  record  of  your  glorious  deeds  shall  live  for  evermore, 
Till  Heaven  and  Earth  shall  pass  away,  and  Time  itself 

be  o'er. 

And  oh !  ye  honored  dead  who  lie  in  unmarked  graves 

this  day, 
O'er  which  no  friend  may  ever  weep,  nor  wife  nor  mother 

pray- 
Yet  Earth  shall  hold  in  glad  embrace  the  sacred,  solemn 

trust, 
And  God  and  all  his  angels  watch  over  each  soldier's  dust. 


MAY  6,  1864. 


MAY   6,    1864. 

How  beautiful  was  earth  that  day  ! 

The  far  blue  sky  had  not  a  cloud  ; 
The  river  rippled  on  its  way, 

Singing  sweet  songs  aloud. 

The  delicate  beauty  of  the  spring 

Pervaded  all  the  murmuring  air; 
It  touched  with  grace  the  meanest  thing 
And  made  it  very  fair. 

The  blithe  birds  darted  to  and  fro, 

The  bees  were  humming  round  the  hive, 
So  happy  in  that  radiant  glow ! 
So  glad  to  be  alive ! 

And  I?     My  heart  was  calmly  blest. 

I  knew  afar  the  war-cloud  rolled 
Lurid  and  dark,  in  fierce  unrest, 
Laden  with  woes  untold. 

But  on  that  day  my  fears  were  stilled  ; 

The  very  air  I  breathed  was  joy; 

The  rest  and  peace  my  soul  that  filled 

Had  nothing  of  alloy. 

As  round  our  humble  cottage  home 

I  moved,  on  household  tasks  intent, 
Glad  thoughts  of  days  when  he  should  come 
To  bless  me,  with  me  went. 


MAY  6,  1864. 

Our  little  girl  came  late  from  school  ffl 
Laden  with  buds  and  blossoms  sweet, 
That,  nestling  in  the  forest  cool, 
Had  thither  lured  her  feet. 

I  took  the  flower  he  loved  the  best, 

The  Arbutus, — fairest  child  of  May, 
And  with  its  perfume  half  oppressed, 
Twined  many  a  lovely  spray 

About  his  picture  on  the  wall ; 

His  eyes  were  on  me  all  the  while, 
And  when  I  had  arranged  them  all 
I  thought  he  seemed  to  smile. 

O  Christ,  be  pitiful !  That  hour 

Saw  him  fall  bleeding  on  the  sod; 

And  while  I  toyed  with  leaf  and  flower 

His  soul  went  up  to  God ! 

For  him  one  pang — and  then  a  crown ; 

For  him  the  laurels  heroes  wear; 
For  him  a  name  whose  long  renown 
Ages  shall  onward  bear. 

For  me  the  cross  without  the  crown ; 

For  me  the  drear  and  lonely  life; 
O  God  !  My  sun,  not  his,  went  down 
On  that  red  field  of  strife. 


154 


DRIFTED  APART. 


DRIFTED    APART. 

DOWN  in  the  grave  with  you,  my  friend, 

All  the  day  long  my  heart  has  been, 
Longing  through  its  dark  depths  to  send 

A  voice  that  might  reach  the  ear  within ; 
A  voice  that  might  tell  thee  all  my  grief, 

And  my  vain  repinings  and  bitter  woe, 
When  I  read  the  message  sharp  and  brief, — 

"Fallen  in  battle,  two  weeks  ago." 

We  had  been  friends  for  many  a  day : 

Mind  answered  to  mind,  and  soul  to  soul, 
And  thought  responded  to  thought  alway, 

Quick  as  the  needle  to.  the  pole. 
But  time  and  distance  and  care  and  strife 

Wrought  their  work  upon  brain  and  heart, 
While  on  the  eddying  current  of  life 

Our  boats  drifted  farther  and  farther  apart. 

Swept  o'er  the  land  the  fierce  tumult  of  war; 

Dark  was  the  air  with  dread  portents  of  gloom ; 
At  the  sound  of  the  slogan  hosts  rushed  from  afar, 

To  rescue  their  land  from  its  threatening  doom. 
Quickly  exchanging  the  pen  for  the  sword, 

Thou  didst  haste  to  the  conflict  with  never  a  sigh ; 
'Mid  the  thunder  of  battle  thy  life-blood  was  poured,- 

Martyr  and  Patriot,  so  did'st  thou  die! 

Thou  wert  noble  and  good  and  true, 
Lofty  of  aim  and  firm  of  will, 


THE  DRUMMER  BOY'S  BURIAL.  155 

Doing  the  work  God  gave  thee  to  do, 
Yielding  thine  own  to  his  purpose  still. 

Never  a  braver  soul  than  thine 

Heard  God's  voice  in  the  battle-cry, — 

Never  a  tenderer  heart  than  thine 

Fell  where  the  pitiless  death-shots  fly. 

Maybe  from  thy  home  in  the  other  sphere, 

Friend  of  my  bright  and  beautiful  past, 
The  words  I  am  uttering  thou  dost  hear, 

And  dost  know  I  was  true  to  thee  e'en  to  the  last ! 
Perhaps  thou  didst  know  of  my  bitter  grief, 

And  my  vain  regrets  and  reproachful  woe, 
When  I  read  the  message  sharp  and  brief, — 

"Fallen  in  battle,  two  weeks  ago." 


THE    DRUMMER   BOY'S    BURIAL. 

ALT,  day  long  the  storm  of  battle  through  the  startled  val 
ley  swept ; 

All  night  long  the  stars  in  heaven  o'er  the  slain  sad  vigils 
kept. 

Oh,  the  ghastly,  upturned  faces,  gleaming  whitely  through 

the  night ! 
Oh,  the  heaps  of  mangled  corses  in  that  dim  sepulchral 

light ! 

One  by  one  the  pale  stars  faded,  and  at  length  the  morn 
ing  broke ; 

But  not  one  of  all  the  sleepers  on  that  field  of  death 
awoke. 


!56  THE  DRUMMER  BOY'S  BURIAL. 

Slowly  passed  the  golden  hours  of  that  long  bright  sum 
mer  day, 

And  upon  that  field  of  carnage  still  the  dead  unburied 
lay; 

Lay  there  stark  and  cold,  but  pleading  with  a  dumb,  un 
ceasing  prayer, 
For  a  little  dust  to  hide  them  from  the  staring  sun  and  air. 

But  the  foemen  held  possession  of  that  hard-won  battle- 
plain, 
In  unholy  wrath  denying  even  burial  to  our  slain. 

Once  again  the  night  dropped  round  them — night  so  holy 

and  so  calm 
That  the  moonbeams  hushed  the  spirit,  like  the  sound  of 

prayer  or  psalm. 

On  a  couch  of  trampled  grasses,  just  apart  from  all  the 

rest, 
Lay  a  fair  young  boy,  with  small  hands  meekly  folded  on 

his  breast. 

Death  had  touched  him  very  gently,  and  he  lay  as  if  in 

sleep ; 
Even  his  mother  scarce  had  shuddered  at  that  slumber, 

calm  and  deep. 

For  a  smile  of  wondrous  sweetness  lent  a  radiance  to  the 

face, 
And  the   hand  of  cunning  sculptor  could   have   added 

naught  of  grace 

To  the  marble  limbs  so  perfect  in  their  passionless  repose, 
Robbed  of  all  save  matchless  purity  by  hard,  unpitying 
foes. 


THE  DRUMMER  £OY'S  BURIAL. 


157 


And  the  broken  drum  beside  him  all  his  life's  short  story 

told; 
How  he  did  his  duty  bravely  till  the  death-tide  o'er  him 

rolled. 

Midnight  came  with  ebon  garments  and  a  diadem  of  stars, 
While  right  upward  in  the  zenith  hung  the  fiery  planet 
Mars. 

Hark  !  a  sound  of  stealthy  footsteps  and  of  voices  whis 
pering  low, — 

Was  it  nothing  but  the  young  leaves,  or  the  brooklet's 
murmuring  flow? 

Clinging  closely  to  each  other,  striving  never  to  look 

round 
As  they  passed  with  silent  shudder  the  pale  corses  on  the 

ground, 

Came  two  little  maidens — sisters — with  a  light  and  hasty 

tread, 
And  a  look  upon  their  faces,  half  of  sorrow,  half  of  dread. 

And  they  did  not  pause  nor  falter  till,  with  throbbing 

hearts,  they  stood 
Where  the  Drummer-Boy  was  lying  in  that  partial  solitude. 

They  had  brought  some  simple  garments  from  their  ward 
robe's  scanty  store, 

And  two  heavy  iron  shovels  in  their  slender  hands  they 
bore. 

Then  they  quickly  knelt  beside  him,  crushing  back  the 

pitying  tears, 
For  they  had  no  time  for  weeping,  nor  for  any  girlish 

fears. 

14 


158  THE  DRUMMER  BOY'S  BURIAL. 

And  they  robed  the  icy  body,  while  no  glow  of  maiden 

shame 
Changed  the  pallor  of  their  foreheads  to  a  flush  of  lambent 

flame. 

For  their  saintly  hearts  yearned  o'er  it  in  that  hour  of 

sorest  need, 
And  they  felt  that  Death  was  holy  and  it  sanctified  the 

deed. 

But  they  smiled  and  kissed  each  other  when  their  new, 

strange  task  was  o'er, 
And  the  form  that  lay  before  them  its  unwonted  garments 

wore. 

Then  with  slow  and  weary  labor  a  small  grave  they  hol 
lowed  out, 

And  they  lined  it  with  the  withered  grass  and  leaves  that 
lay  about. 

But  the  day  was  slowly  breaking  ere  their  holy  work  was 

done, 
And  in  crimson  pomp  the  morning  again  heralded  the  sun. 

And  then  those  little  maidens — they  were  children  of  our 

foes — 
Laid  the  body  of  our  Drummer-Boy  to  undisturbed  repose. 


CHARLEY  OF  HALVE RN  HILL.  159 


CHARLEY  OF  MALVERN  HILL. 

A  WAR-WORN  soldier,  bronzed  and  seamed 

By  weary  march  and  battle  stroke ; 
'Twas  thus,  while  leaning  on  his  crutch, 
The  wounded  veteran  spoke, — 

"The  blue-eyed  boy  of  Malvern  Hill! 

A  hero  every  inch  was  he, 
Though  scarcely  larger  than  the  child 
You  hold,  sir,  on  your  knee. 

"  Some  mother's  darling !     On  that  field 

He  seemed  so  strangely  out  of  place, 
With  his  pure  brow,  his  shining  hair, 
His  sweet,  unconscious  grace. 

"But  not  a  bearded  warrior  there 

Watched  with  a  more  undaunted  eye 
The  blackness  of  the  battle-cloud, 

As  the  fierce  storm  rose  high. 

"That  morn — ah !  what  a  morn  was  that  !- 

We  thought  to  send  him  to  the  rear; 
We  loved  the  lad — and  love,  you  know, 
Is  near  akin  to  fear. 

"We  knew  that  many  a  gallant  soul 
Must  pass  away  in  one  long  sigh, 
Ere  nightfall.     On  that  bloody  field, 
'Twas  not  for  boys  to  die. 


!6o  CHARLEY  OF  MALVERN  HILL. 

"But  he — could  you  have  seen  him  then, 

As,  with  his  blue  eyes  full  of  fire, 
He  poured  forth  tears  and  pleadings,  half 
Of  shame  and  half  of  ire ! 

'"Oh!  do  not  bid  me  go!'  he  cried; 

*  I  love  yon  flag  as  well  as  you ! 
I  did  not  join  your  ranks  to  run 
When  there  is  work  to  do ! 

'"I  did  not  come  to  beat  my  drum 

Only  upon  some  gala  day.' 
The  colonel  shook  his  head,  but  said, 
'Well,  Charley,  you  may  stay.' 

"Ah!  then  his  tears  were  quickly  dried, 

A  few  glad  words  he  strove  to  say; 
But  there  was  little  time  to  talk, 
And  hardly  time  to  pray. 

"For  bitter,  bitter  was  the  strife 

That  raged  that  day  on  Malvern  Hill ; 
Blue  coats  and  gray  in  great  heaps  lay, 
Ere  that  wild  storm  grew  still. 

"At  length  we  charged.     My  very  heart 
Sank  down  within  me,  cold  and  dumb, 
When  to  the  front,  and  far  ahead, 

Rushed  Charley  with  his  drum ! 

"Above  the  cannon's  thundering  boom, 
The  din  and  shriek  of  shot  and  shell, 
We  heard  its  clear  peal  rolling  out 
Right  gallantly  and  well. 


SUrrLICAMUS.  1 6 1 

"A  moment's  awful  waiting!     Then 
There  came  a  sullen,  angry  roar, — 
O  God !     An  empty  void  remained 
Where  Charley  stood  before. 

"  What  did  we  then  ?     With  souls  on  fire 

We  swept  upon  the  advancing  foe, 
And  bade  good  angels  guard  the  dust 

O'er  which  no  tears  might  flow!" 


SUPPLICAMUS. 

O  LAGGARD  Sun !  make  haste  to  wake 

From  her  long  trance  the  slumbering  earth; 

Make  haste  this  icy  spell  to  break, 
That  she  may  give  new  glories  birth ! 

O  April  rain !  so  soft,  so  warm, 
Bounteous  in  blessing,  rich  in  gifts, 

Drop  tenderly  upon  her  form, 

And  bathe  the  forehead  she  uplifts. 

O  springing  grass !  make  haste  to  run 
With  swift  feet  o'er  the  meadows  bare; 

O'er  hill  and  dale,  through  forests  dun, 
And  where  the  wandering  brooklets  are ! 

O  sweet  wild  flowers !  the  darksome  mould 
Hasten  with  subtle  strength  to  rift; 

Serene  in  beauty,  meek  yet  bold, 
Your  fair  brows  to  the  sunlight  lift ! 
14* 


1 62  SUPPLICAMUS. 

O  haste  ye  all !  for  far  away 
In  lonely  beds  our  heroes  sleep, 

O'er  which  no  wife  may  ever  pray, 
Nor  child  nor  mother  ever  weep. 

No  quaintly  carved  memorial  stone 
May  tell  us  that  their  ashes  lie 

Where  southern  pines  make  solemn  moan, 
And  wailing  winds  give  sad  reply. 

But  deep  in  dreary,  lonesome  shades, 
On  many  a  barren,  sandy  plain, 

By  rocky  pass,  in  tangled  glades, 
And  by  the  rolling,  restless  main ; 

By  rushing  stream,  by  silent  lake, 
Uncoffined  in  their  lowly  graves, 

Until  the  earth's  last  morn  shall  break, 
Must  sleep  our  unforgotten  braves ! 

O  sun !  O  rain !  O  gentle  dew ! 

O  fresh  young  grass,  and  opening  flowers ! 
With  yearning  hearts  we  leave  to  you 

The  holy  task  that  should  be  ours ! 

Light  up  the  darkling  forest's  gloom ; 

Cover  the  bare,  unsightly  clay 
With  tenderest  verdure,  with  the  bloom, 

The  beauty  and  perfume  of  May! 

O  sweet  blue  violets !  softly  creep 
Beside  the  slumbering  warrior's  bed ; 

O  roses  !  let  your  red  hearts  leap 
For  joy  o'er  it  your  sweets  to  shed ; 


THE  LAST  OF  SIX.  163 

O  humble  mosses  !  such  as  make 

New  England's  woods  and  pastures  fair, 

Over  each  mound,  for  Love's  sweet  sake, 
Spread  your  soft  folds  with  tender  care. 

Dear  Nature,  to  your  loving  breast 

Clasp  our  dead  heroes  !     In  your  arms 

Sweet  be  their  sleep,  serene  their  rest, 
Unmoved  by  Battle's  loud  alarms ! 


THE  LAST  OF  SIX. 

COME  in;  you  are  welcome,  neighbor;  all  day  I've  been 

alone, 
And  heard  the  wailing,  wintry  wind  sweep  by  with  bitter 

moan; 

And  to-night  beside  my  lonely  fire,  I  mutely  wonder  why 
I,  who  once  wept  as  others  weep,  sit  here  with  tearless 

eye. 

To-day  this  letter  came  to  me.     At   first  I  could   not 

brook 

Upon  the  unfamiliar  lines  by  strangers  penned,  to  look ; 
The   dread   of  evil   tidings   shook    my   soul   with   wild 

alarm, — 
But  Harry's  in  the  hospital,  and  has  only  lost  an  arm. 

He  is  the  last — the  last  of  six  brave  boys  as  e'er  were 

seen  ! 
How  short,  to  memory's  vision,  seem  the  years  that  lie 

between 


X64  THE   LAST  OF  SIX. 

This  hour  and  those  most  blessed  ones,  when  round  this 

hearth's  bright  blaze 
They  charmed  their  mother's  heart  and  eye  with  all  their 

pretty  ways ! 

My  William  was  the  eldest  son,  and  he  was  first  to  go. 
It  did  not  at  all  surprise  me,  for  I  knew  it  would  be  so, 
From  that   fearful  April   Sunday  when   the   news   from 

Sumter  came, 
And  his  lips  grew  white  as  ashes,  while  his  eyes  were  all 

aflame. 

He  sprang  to  join  the  three  months'  men.     I  could  not 

say  him  nay, 
Though  my  heart  stood  still  within  me  when  I  saw  him 

march  away; 
At  the  corner  of  the  street  he  smiled,  and  waved  the  flag 

he  bore ; — 
I  never  saw  him  smile  again — he  was  slain  at  Baltimore. 

They  sent  his  body  back  to  me,  and  as  we  stood  around 
His  grave,  beside  his  father's,  in  yonder  burial-ground, 
John  laid  his  hand  upon  my  arm  and  whispered,  "  Mother 

dear, 
I  have  Willy's  work  and  mine  to  do.     I  cannot  loiter 

here." 

I  turned  and  looked  at  Paul,  for  he  and  John  were  twins, 

you  know, 

Born  on  a  happy  Christmas,  four-and-twenty  years  ago ; 
I  looked  upon  them  both,  while  my  tears  fell  down  like 

rain, 
For  I  knew  what  one  had  spoken,  had  been  spoken  by  the 

twain. 


THE  LAST  OF  SIX.  I^ 

In  a  month  or  more  they  left  me, — the  merry,  handsome 

boys, 
Who  had  kept  the  old  house  ringing  with  their  laughter, 

fun,  and  noise. 
Then  James  came  home  to  mind  the  farm ;  my  younger 

sons  were  still 
Mere  children,  at  their  lessons  in  the  school-house  on  the 

hill. 

0  days  of  weary  waiting  !  O  days  of  doubt  and  dread  ! 

1  feared  to  read  the  papers,  or  to  see  the  lists  of  dead ; 
But  when  full  many  a  battle-storm  had  left  them  both 

unharmed, 

I  taught  my  foolish  heart  to  think  the  double  lives  were 
charmed. 

Their  colonel  since  has  told  me  that  no  braver  boys  than 

they 

Ever  rallied  round  the  colors,  in  the  thickest  of  the  fray ; 
Upon  the  wall   behind   you   their   swords   are   hanging 

still, — 
For  John  was  killed  at  Fair  Oaks,  and  Paul  at  Malvern 

Hill. 

Then  came  the  dark  days,  darker  than  any  known  before ; 

There  was  another  call  for  men, — "three  hundred  thou 
sand  more ;" 

I  saw  the  cloud  on  Jamie's  brow  grow  deeper  day  by  day. 

I  shrank  before  the  impending  blow,  and  scarce  had 
strength  to  pray. 

And  yet  at  last  I  bade  him  go,  while  on  my  cheek  and 

brow 
His  loving  tears  and  kisses  fell ;  I  feel  them  even  now, 


1 66  THE  LAST  OF  SIX. 

Though  the  eyes  that  shed  the  tears,  and  the  lips  so  warm 

on  mine 
Are  hidden  under  southern  sands,  beneath  a  blasted  pine ! 

He  did  not  die  'mid  battle-smoke,  but  for  a  weary  year 

He  languished  in  close  prison  walls,  a  prey  to  hope  and 
fear; 

I  dare  not  trust  myself  to  think  of  the  fruitless  pangs  he 
bore, 

My  brain  grows  wild  when  in  my  dreams  I  count  his  suf 
ferings  o'er. 

Only  two  left!    I  thought  the  worst  was  surely  over  then; 
But  lo !    at  once  my  school-boy  sons  sprang  up  before 

.     me — men ! 

They  heard  their  brothers'  martyr  blood  call  from  the  hal 
lowed  ground; 
A  loud,  imperious  summons  that  all  other  voices  drowned. 

I  did  not  say  a  single  word.    My  very  heart  seemed  dead. 
What  could  I  do  but  take  the  cup,  and  bow  my  weary 

head 
To  drink  the  bitter  draught  again?     I  dared  not  hold 

them  back; 
I  would  as  soon  have  tried  to  check  the  whirlwind  on  its 

track. 

You  know  the  rest.   At  Cedar  Creek  my  Frederick  bravely 

fell; 
They  say  his  young  arm  did  its  work  right   nobly  and 

right  well ; 
His  comrades  breathe  the  hero's  name  with  mingled  love 

and  pride; 
I  miss  the  gentle  blue-eyed  boy,  who  frolicked  at  my  side. 


A   MEMORY. 


167 


For  me,  I  ne'er  shall  weep  again.     I  think  my  heart  is 

dead, 
I,  who  could  weep  for  lighter  griefs,  have  now  no  tears  to 

shed. 

But  read  this  letter,  neighbor.  There  is  nothing  to  alarm, 
For  Harry's  in  the  hospital,  and  has  only  lost  an  arm ! 


A    MEMORY. 

UNDER  the  pine-trees,  dark  and  still, 
Standing  like  sentinels  on  the  hill, 
Where  we  walked  in  the  long  ago, 
Falls,  as  of  old,  the  sunset  glow, 

Tinging  the  mossbank,  till  it  seems 
Fitting  couch  for  fairy  dreams; 
Cloth  of  gold  its  drapery  rare, 
With  velvet  meet  for  a  queen  to  wear. 

Still  does  the  river  roll  between 
Flowery  banks  and  meadows  green  ; 
Still  do  the  mountains  and  the  plain 
All  of  their  pomp  and  glow  retain. 

But  thou  and  I  ?     Ah !  years  have  flown, 
Oft  have  the  summer  roses  blown, 
Oft  have  the  roses  died  since  we — 
Mere  boy  and  girl  beneath  this  tree — 

Watched  while  the  daylight  softly  crept 
Up  from  the  vale  where  the  waters  slept, 


168  OUR  FLAGS  AT  THE    CAPITOL. 

Till  the  high  mountain  peaks  grew  dim, 
And  yon  star  sang  us  a  vesper  hymn. 

I  am  older,  and  thou  art — dead  ! 

In  a  soldier's  grave  low  lies  thy  head; 

They  who  laid  it  gently  down, 

Saw  it  crowned  with  a  martyr's  crown ; 

Saw  the  palm  in  hands  at  rest, 
Folded  o'er  a  blood-stained  breast. 
Twice  have  the  wild  birds  come  and  gone, 
Since  that  crown  and  palm  were  won  ! 


OUR   FLAGS   AT  THE   CAPITOL. 

REMOVE  them  not !  Above  our  fallen  braves 
Nature  not  yet  her  perfect  work  hath  wrought ; 

Scarce  has  the  turf  grown  green  upon  their  graves, 
The  martyr  graves  for  whose  embrace  they  fought. 

The  wounds  of  our  long  conflict  are  not  healed ; 

Our  land's  fair  face  is  seamed  with  many  a  scar; 
And  woeful  sights,  on  many  a  battle-field, 

Show  ghastly  grim  beneath  the  evening  star. 

Still  does  the  sad  Earth  tremble  with  affright, 
Lest  she  the  tread  of  armed  hosts  should  feel 

Once  more  upon  her  bosom.  Still  the  Night 

Hears,  in  wild  dreams,  the  cannon's  thundering  peal. 

Still  do  the  black-robed  mothers  come  and  go ; 
Still  do  lone  wives  by  dreary  hearthstones  weep; 


OUR  FLAGS  AT  THE    CAPITOL. 

Still  does  a  Nation,  in  her  pride  and  woe, 
For  her  dead  sons  a  mournful  vigil  keep. 

Ah,  then,  awhile  delay!     Remove  ye  not 

These  drooping  banners  from  their  place  on  high ; 

They  make  of  each  proud  hall  a  hallowed  spot, 
Where  Truth  must  dwell  and  Freedom  cannot  die. 

Now  slowly  waving  in  this  tranquil  air,- 

What  wondrous  eloquence  is  in  their  speech ! 

No  prophet  'silver  tongued,'  no  poet  rare, 

Even  in  dreams  may  hope  such  heights  to  reach. 

They  tell  of  Life  that  calmly  looked  on  Death, — 
Of  peerless  valor  and  of  trust  sublime, — 

Of  costly  sacrifice,  of  holiest  faith, 

Of  lofty  hopes  that  ended  not  with  Time. 

Oh  !  each  worn  fold  is  hallowed  !  set  apart 

To  minister  unto  us  in  our  needs, — 
To  bear  henceforth  to  many  a  fainting  heart, 

The  cordial  wine  of  noble  thoughts  and  deeds. 

Then  leave  them  yet  awhile  where,  day  by  day, 
The  lessons  that  they  teach,  your  souls  may  learn  ; 

So  shall  ye  labor  for  the  Right  alway, 
And  for  its  faithful  service  ever  yearn. 

Now  may  God  bless  our  land  for  evermore ! 

And  from  all  strife  and  turmoil  grant  surcease ; 
While  from  the  mountains  to  the  farthest  shore 

Accordant  voices  softly  whisper — Peace ! 

15 


1865 


1865. 

O  DARKEST  Year !     O  brightest  Year  ! 

O  changeful  Year  of  joy  and  woe, 
To-day  we  stand  beside  thy  bier, 
Still  loth  to  let  thee  go ! 

We  look  upon  thy  brow,  and  say, 

"How  old  he  is, — how  old  and  worn  !" 
Has  but  a  twelvemonth  passed  away 
Since  thou  wert  newly  born  ? 

So  long  it  seems  since  on  the  air 

The  joy-bells  rang  to  hail  thy  birth, — 
And  pale  lips  strove  to  call  thee  fair, 
And  sing  the  songs  of  mirth ! 

For  dark  the  heavens  that  o'er  thee  hung; 
By  stormy  winds  thy  couch  was  rocked ; 
Thy  cradle  hymn  the  Furies  sung, 

While  sneering  Demons  mocked  ! 

We  held  our  very  breath  for  dread ; 

We  moved  'mid  clouds,  that,  like  a  pall, 
Darkened  the  blue  sky  overhead, 
And  night  hung  over  all. 

But  thou  wert  better  than  our  fears, 

And  bade  our  land's  long  anguish  cease ; 
And  gave  us,  O  thou  Year  of  years, 
The  costly  pearl  of  Peace  ! 


1865.  1 7i 

So  dearly  bought !     By  precious  blood 
Of  patriot  heroes, — sire  and  son, — 
And  that  of  him,  the  pure  and  good, 
Our  wearied,  martyred  One ; 

Who  bore  for  us  the  heavy  load, — 

The  cross  our  hands  upon  him  laid ; 
Who  trod  for  us  the  toilsome  road 
Meekly,  yet  undismayed ! 

And  for  that  gift — although  thy  graves 
Lie  thick  beneath  December's  snow, 
Though  every  hamlet  mourns  its  braves, 
And  bears  its  weight  of  woe — 

We  bless  thee !     Yet,  O  bounteous  year, 

For  more  than  Peace  we  thank  thee  now, 
As  bending  o'er  thine  honored  bier, 
We  crown  thy  pallid  brow ! 

We  bless  thee,  though  we  scarcely  dare 

Give  to  our  new-born  joy  a  tongue ; 
O  mighty  Year,  upon  the  air 

Thy  voice  triumphant  rung, 

Even  in  death !  and  at  the  sound, 

From  myriad  limbs  the  fetters  fell 
Into  the  dim  and  vast  profound, 

While  tolled  thy  passing  bell ! 

Farewell,  farewell,  thou  storied  Year  ! 

Thou  wondrous  Year  of  joy  and  gloom ! 
With  grateful  hearts  we  crown  thee,  ere 
We  lay  thee  in  thy  tomb  ! 


172 


WAITING  FOR   LETTERS. 


WAITING    FOR    LETTERS. 

COUNTING  the  minutes  all  the  day  long, 

Minutes  that  creep  with  the  pace  of  a  snail ; 
Deaf  to  the  Bobolink's  jubilant  song, 

Deaf  to  the  Whip-po-wil's  pitiful  wail ! 
Out  in  the  garden  red  roses  are  blowing 
Down  by  the  hedgerow  are  violets  growing, 
Daisies  their  dainty  white  blossoms  are  showing, 
But  the  girl's  heart  bitter  anguish  is  knowing. 

Striving  to  work,  for  there's  work  to  be  done, — 

Hands  must  be  busy  though  hearts  bleed  and  break, - 
Lifting  up  tear-laden  eyes  to  the  sun, 

Ah  !  the  long  day  will  not  speed  for  her  sake  ; 
How  the  clock  ticks  on,  unresting,  unhasting; 
Never  a  single  beat  staying  or  wasting, 
Steady  as  fate,  though  our  souls  may  be  draining 
Cups  where  the  bitter  alone  is  remaining ! 

But  the  day  wanes,  as  the  longest  day  will ; 

Slowly  the  golden  light  fades  from  the  west, 
All  the  green  valleys  lie  breathless  and  still, 

Birds  cease  their  trilling  and  winds  are  at  rest. 
Hark !  A  low  sound  as  of  far-away  thunder ! 
'Tis  the  rush  of  the  train  as  it  sweeps  along  under 
The  crests  of  the  mountains  that,  parting  asunder, 
Seem  to  shrink  back  from  this  demon-eyed  wonder ! 

Ah,  how  her  pulses  throb  !     Silent  and  pale 
Now  stands  she  waiting — the  mail  has  come  in ! 


IDLE    WORDS.  173 

Waiting  for  letters.     But  watching  must  fail, 

And  hope  dream  in  vain  of  the  bliss  that  has  been. 
Down  where  the  southern  pines  sigh  in  the  gloaming, 
Still  lie  her  lover's  feet,  weary  of  roaming; 
Never  again  shall  the  heart  of  the  maiden 
Hail  his  white  missives  with  love  overladen ! 


IDLE   WORDS. 

I. 

ONCE  I  said, 

Seeing  two  soft,  starry  eyes 
Darkly  bright  as  midnight  skies, — 
Eyes  prophetic  of  the  power 
Sure  to  be  thy  woman's  dower, 
When  the  years  should  crown  thee  queen 
Of  the  realm  as  yet  unseen, — 
"Some  time,  sweet,  those  eyes  shall  make 
Lovers  mad  for  their  sweet  sake ! ' ' 

n. 

Once  I  said, 

Seeing  tresses,  golden-brown, 
In  a  bright  shower  falling  down 
Over  neck  and  bosom  fair 
As  yon  sculptured  angel's  are, — 
Odorous  tresses  drooping  low 
O'er  a  forehead  pure  as  snow, — 
"Some  time,  sweet,  in  thy  soft  hair 
Love  shall  set  a  shining  snare  !" 


174 


INCOMPL  E  TENESS. 

III. 

Once  I  said, 

Seeing  lips  whose  crimson  hue 
Mocked  the  roses  wet  with  dew, — 
Warm,  sweet  lips,  whose  breath  was  balm,- 
Pure,  proud  lips,  serenely  calm, — 
Tender  lips,  whose  smiling  grace 
Lit  with  splendor  all  the  face, — 
"Sweet,  for  kiss  of  thine  some  day 
Men  will  barter  souls  away ! ' ' 

IV. 

Idly  said ! 

God  hath  taken  care  of  all 
Joy  or  pain  that  might  befall ! 
Lover's  lip  shall  never  thrill 
At  thy  kisses,  soft  and  still ; 
Lover's  heart  shall  never  break 
In  sore  anguish  for  thy  sake ; 
Lover's  soul  for  thee  shall  know 
Nor  love's  rapture,  nor  its  woe ; — 

All  is  said  ! 


INCOMPLETENESS. 

THE  noon  is  past — and  far  off  I  hear 
The  feet  of  the  twilight  drawing  near  ! 
O  hours  that  glide  so  swift  away ! 
O  golden  hours  that  will  not  stay ! — 
Ye  are  slipping  away  from  me  one  by  one, 
And  my  poor  day's  work  is  scarce  begun  ! 


INCOMPLE  TENESS. 


'75 


Ah,  me !  how  I  dreamed  in  the  long  ago, 
When  the  sky  was  red  with  the  morn's  first  glow ; 
When  the  dew  still  lay  on  the  flowers  of  spring, 
And  the  sweet  May  roses  were  opening ; — 
When  the  bluebirds  sang  and  I  scarce  could  see 
The  robin's  nest  in  the  leafy  tree! 

I  dreamed  such  dreams  of  the  far  To  Be 
And  of  all  it  held  in  its  hands  for  me; 
I  dreamed  of  the  songs  that  were  yet  unsung 
Till  my  brain  with  their  wondrous  music  rung, 
And  my  young  heart  burned  with  prophetic  fire 
As  I  swept  the  chords  of  a  mystic  lyre. 

And  oft  when  the  star-crowned  midnight  came 
With  her  ebon  locks  and  her  eye  of  flame, 
Dim  phantoms  trooped  to  my  silent  room 
Trailing  their  robes  through  its  ghostly  gloom. 
' '  We  are  but  shadows, ' '  they  seemed  to  say, 
"Give  us  life  and  breath  ere  we  fade  away!" 

Alas !  Alas !  They  are  still  unsung, 
Those  songs  that  with  mystic  music  rung; 
And  the  visions  that  haunted  my  silent  room, 
Pleading  for  life  in  its  dusky  gloom, 
Those  shadowy  children  of  heart  and  brain, 
Unborn,  unshriven,  must  aye  remain  ! 

For  Life  laid  on  me  its  stern  commands 

And  bound  me  fast  in  its  iron  bands; 

It  touched  my  lip  with  a  finger  chill, 

And  the  voice  of  its  singing  was  hushed  and  still ; 

Or  rose  at  times  in  a  changeful  strain, 

Born  half  of  joy  and  half  of  pain  ! 


1 76  INCOMPLE  TENESS. 

The  noon  is  past,  and  far  off  I  hear 
The  feet  of  the  twilight  drawing  near. 
Master !  what  wilt  thou  say  to  me 
When  my  half-done  work  I  show  to  thee? 
When  my  unfinished  task  I  bring, 
Can  I  hope  for  word  of  welcoming  ? 

Wilt  thou  smile  or  frown  when,  bending  low, 
I  cry, — "It  is  all  I  have  to  show — 
This  incompleteness?"     In  that  hour, 
O  Christ !  remembering  still  thy  dower 
Of  human  pain  and  weakness,  say, 
"I  own  his  work  who  would  obey !" 


IN    MEMORIAM. 


(177) 


COMING  HOME. 

WHEN  the  winter  winds  were  loud, 
And  Earth  slept  in  snowy  shroud, 
Oft  our  darling  wrote  to  us, 
And  the  words  ran  ever  thus, — 
"  I  am  coming  in  the  Spring  ! 
With  the  Mayflower's  blossoming, 
With  the  young  leaves  on  the  tree, 
O  my  dear  ones,  look  for  me ! ' ' 

And  she  came.     One  dreary  day, 
When  the  skies  were  dull  and  gray, 
Softly  through  the  open  door 
Our  beloved  came  once  more. 
Came  with  folded  hands  that  lay 
Very  quietly  alway, — 
Came  with  heavy-lidded  eyes, 
Lifted  not  in  glad  surprise. 

Not  a  single  word  she  spoke ; 
Laugh  nor  sigh  her  silence  broke 
As  across  the  quiet  room, 
Darkening  in  the  twilight  gloom, 
On  she  passed  in  stillest  guise, 
Calm  as  saint  in  Paradise, 
To  the  spot  where — woe  betide ! — 
Four  years  since  she  stood  a  bride. 

(i79) 


i8o  IN  MEMORIAM. 

Then,  you  think,  we  sprang  to  greet  her, — 
Sprang  with  outstretched  hands,  to  meet  her; 
Clasped  her  in  our  arms  once  more, 
As  in  happy  days  of  yore; 
Poured  warm  kisses  on  her  cheek, 
Passive  lips  and  forehead  meek, 
fill  the  barrier  melted  down 
That  had  thus  between  us  grown. 

Ah,  no ! — Darling,  did  you  know 
When  we  bent  above  you  so? 
When  our  tears  fell  down  like  rain, 
And  our  hearts  were  wild  with  pain  ? 
Did  you  pity  us  that  day, 
Even  as  holy  angels  may 
Pity  mortals  here  below, 
While  they  wonder  at  their  woe? 

Who  can  tell  us?     Word  nor  sign 
Came  from  those  pale  lips  of  thine; 
Loving  heart  and  yearning  breast 
Lay  in  coldest,  calmest  rest. 
Is  thy  Heaven  so  very  fair 
That  thou  dost  forget  us  there? 
Speak,  beloved !     Woe  is  me 
That  in  vain  I  call  on  thee ! 

Some  time — but  not  yet — I  know 
Time  will  check  the  bitter  flow 
Of  our  tears.     But  nevermore 
Will  Earth  wear  the  smile  she  wore, 
Wear  the  golden  glow  that  flung 
Light  the  dreariest  paths  among, 
Ere  that  one  small  grave  was  made 
Underneath  the  elm-tree's  shade. 


HIDDEN  AWAY. 


HIDDEN   AWAY. 

HIDDEN  away  beneath  the  sod ! 

O  my  darling,  can  this  be  true? 
In  the  pleasant  paths  your  feet  have  trod 

Must  I  look  in  vain,  henceforth,  for  you? 
Will  the  summers  come,  and  the  summers  go  ? 

Will  Earth  rejoice  in  her  robes  of  green  ? 
Will  roses  blow,  while  thy  cheek's  young  glow 

And  thine  eyes'  soft  smiling  ne'er  are  seen? 

Hidden  away  three  months  ago ! 

Only  three  months !  but  how  long  it  seems 
Since  that  dreary  day  when  the  clouds  hung  low, 

And  the  wild  rains  flooded  the  swollen  streams ! 
It  was  meet  that  the  sombre  skies  should  weep, 

And  the  hills  that  you  loved  be  black  as  night, 
When  the  dreamless  sleep  of  the  grave  so  deep, 

Wrapped  you  away  from  our  yearning  sight ! 

I  know  that  Earth  is  as  fair  to-day, 

As  fresh  and  fair  as  she  was  last  June, 
When  the  wind  in  the  maple  boughs  alway 

Seemed  to  murmur  a  pleasant  tune ; 
The  bending  skies  are  as  blue,  I  trow, 

The  young  leaves  dance  in  their  merry  glee, 
The  stars  still  glow,  and  the  bright  streams  flow, — 

What  have  we  lost  then? — Only  thee ! 

Only  our  best  and  our  fairest,  laid 
Out  of  our  sight  beneath  the  sod ! 
16 


182  IN  ME  MORI  AM. 

Only  a  voice  whose  music  made 

Shorter  the  weary  ways  we  trod ! 
But  with  warmth  and  light  and  odorous  bloom 

The  beautiful  earth  is  glad  and  gay, 
Though  down  in  the  gloom  of  the  shadowy  tomb 

Thy  form,  my  beloved,  lies  hidden  away  1 


WAKENING   EARLY. 

IN  loving  jest  you  wrote, — "Ah,  me! 
My  babe's  blue  eyes  are  fair  to  see; 
And  sweet  his  cooing  love-notes  be 
That  waken  me  too  early ! ' ' 

Oh !  would  to  God,  beloved,  to-day 
That  merry  shout  or  gleeful  play 
Might  drive  your  heavy  sleep  away, 
And  bid  you  waken  early ; 

But  vain  are  all  our  prayers  and  cries; 
From  your  low  bed  you  will  not  rise; 
No  kisses  falling  on  your  eyes, 

Can  waken  you  right  early. 

Bright  are  the  skies  above  your  bed, 
And  through  the  elm  boughs  overhead 
Are  golden  sunbeams  softly  shed, 

That  wake  you  late  nor  early. 

Beside  you  through  these  summer  days 
The  murmuring  fountain,  as  it  plays, 


NELLIE'S  MOTHER. 

Fills  the  soft  air  with  diamond  sprays, 
But  does  not  wake  you  early ! 

We  bring  the  flowers  you  loved  so  well, 
The  pure  white  rose  and  lily  bell ; 
Their  sweets  break  not  this  fearful  spell ; 
They  do  not  wake  you  early ! 

We  sing  your  songs;  we  pause  to  hear 
Your  birdlike  voice  rise  full  and  clear ; 
Ah !  dull  and  heavy  is  your  ear ; 
We  cannot  wake  you  early. 

You  will  not  wake?     Then  may  your  sleep, 
If  it  be  long,  be  calm  and  deep; 
Thank  God,  the  eyes  forget  to  weep 
That  do  not  waken  early ! 


183 


NELLIE'S   MOTHER. 

IN  the  cool  and  pleasant  shade 
By  the  drooping  elm  boughs  made, 
Where  the  fountain  sings  its  song, 
Tinkling,  tinkling,  all  day  long ; 
Where  the  blithe  birds  come  and  go, 
Murmuring  love-notes  sweet  and  low, 
Wrapped  in  silence  calm  and  deep 
Nellie's  mother  lies  asleep. 

'Twas  a  dreary  April  day; 

Dark  the  skies  were,  cold  and  gray, 


1 84  IK  MEMORIAM. 

When  we  laid  her  down  to  rest, 
With  her  pale  hands  on  her  breast. 
Sullenly  the  rain-drops  fell, 
And  each  drop  was  like  a  knell ; 
Even  nature  seemed  to  weep 
O'er  our  darling's  dreamless  sleep ! 

She  was  young  and  very  fair ; 

Soft  red  lips,  and  waving  hair, 

Earnest  eyes  of  darkest  blue, 

Face  from  which  the  soul  shone  through, 

Guileless  heart,  that  never  beat 

Save  to  impulse  pure  and  sweet, — 

Ah !  we  put  them  all  away 

Out  of  sight,  that  dreary  day ! 

But  God  sent  his  healing  balm, 
And  our  anguished  hearts  grew  calm ; 
Over   all  graves,  in  his  good  time 
Grasses  will  grow  and  mosses  climb ; 
And  upon  hers  the  turf  was  green, 
While  violets  smiled  with  eyes  serene, 
And  o'er  our  dear  one's  lovely  head 
White  roses  joyed  their  sweets  to  shed. 

And  often  when  the  day  was  new, 
A  fair-haired  child,  with  eyes  as  blue 
As  those  that  slept  beneath  the  sod, 
About  the  green  grave  lightly  trod. 
Over  the  fresh  and  tender  grass 
Her  tiny  hand  would  gently  pass, 
Brushing  each  withered  leaf  away, 
And  gathering  in  each  wandering  spray. 


SO  LONG!  rS5 

"Mamma  is  up  in  heaven,  I  know," 
The  sweet  young  voice  would  whisper  low, 
"But  yet,  I  think,  'twill  please  her  there, 
To  see  I  keep  her  grave  with  care." 
And  so,  with  happy  zeal,  she  wrought, 
Her  face  aglow  with  kindling  thought, — 
Holding  communion,  it  may  be, 
With  one  our  dim  eyes  could  not  see. 


SO   LONG! 

IT  is  not  yet  a  year  since  thou, 
With  calmest  mien  and  placid  brow, 
Didst  seek  the  rest  that  knows  no  dreams, — 
Yet,  ah  !  beloved,  so  long  it  seems, — 
So  long  it  seems ! 

The  fresh  young  grass  was  springing  when 
We  hid  thee  from  the  eyes  of  men; 
And  th'  arbutus'  pallid  bloom 
Amid  the  darkness  of  thy  tomb 
Shed  faint  perfume  ! 

And  now  above  thy  lowly  grave 
The  white  snows  drift,  the  wild  winds  rave 
For  the  first  time.     Not  once  the  year 
Has  rounded  to  a  perfect  sphere 
Since  thou  wert  here  ! 
1 6* 


1 86  IN  ME  MORI  AM. 

Not  yet  a  year  !  O  weary  days, 
I  count  ye  o'er  in  sad  amaze  ! 
While  still  amid  the  careless  throng, 
My  heart  repeats  its  woeful  song, 
So  long,  so  long ! 


BLEST. 

SINKING  to  thine  eternal  rest, 
O  dying  Year !  I  call  thee  blest ; 
Blest  as  no  coming  year  may  be 
This  side  of  vast  Eternity ! 

Thy  cheek  is  pale,  thy  brow  is  worn ; 
Thine  arms  are  weary,  that  have  borne 
The  heaviest  burdens  ever  laid 
On  any,  since  the  world  was  made. 

But  thou  didst  know  her,  whom  to-day 
My  fond  heart  mourns,  and  must  alway; 
And  she — our  best  one,  called  thee  dear, 
Hailing  with  joy  the  glad  New  Year ! 

Her  blue  eyes  smiled  upon  thy  birth ; 
Her  voice,  the  sweetest  on  the  earth, 
Sang  gladsome  carols,  joyous  .lays, 
And  thrilling  anthems  in  thy  praise. 

Thou  didst  behold  her,  fair  and  good  ; 
The  perfect  flower  of  womanhood  ; 


FOUR    YEARS. 

Simple  and  pure  in  thought  and  deed, 
Yet  strong  in  every  hour  of  need. 

Ah  !  other  years  shall  come  and  go, 
Bidding  the  sweet  June  roses  blow ; 
But  never  on  their  yearning  eyes, 
Shall  her  fair  presence  once  arise ! 

The  Spring  shall  miss  her,  and  the  long, 
Bright  Summer  days  hear  not  her  song ; 
And  hoary  Winter,  draped  in  snow, 
Finding  her  not,  shall  haste  to  go  ! 

Therefore,  Old  Year,  I  call  thee  blest, 
Thus  sinking  to  eternal  rest ; 
Blest  as  no  other  Year  may  be 
This  side  of  vast  Eternity ! 


FOUR   YEARS. 

Do  they  measure  time  where  thou  art, 

O  my  beloved  ? 
Does  the  thought  fill  thy  heart 

As  mine,  beloved, 
That  four  years  ago  to-night, 
Thou  didst  pass  beyond  our  sight, 
.Out  upon  the  unknown  sea 
Where  we  could  not  follow  thee? 

Dost  thou  remember  it, 
O  my  beloved? 


1 88  IN  MEMORIAM. 

Does  there  a  memory  flit 

O'er  thee,  beloved, 
Of  the  hour  when  on  thy  lips, 
And  thy  blue  eyes'  sad  eclipse, 
Love's  last  tearful  kiss  was  pressed 
Ere  you  sank  to  dreamless  rest  ? 

Couldst  thou  but  answer  me 

Just  once,  beloved, 
Solving  this  mystery, 

O  my  beloved ! 

What  to  thee  have  been  the  years, 
Marked  for  us  by  bitter  tears? 
Hast  thou  grown  beyond  our  reach, 
Learning  what  the  angels  teach? 


THEN   AND    NOW. 

WHEN  last  these  trembling  blossoms  swung, 
Bright  pendants  on  the  bending  spray, 

Like  tiny  bells  by  fairies  rung 
In  tinkling  murmurs  all  the  day; 

We  bent  above  them,  thou  and  I, 
Entranced  the  lovely  things  to  view, 

That  shamed  the  ruby's  burning  dye, 
And  mocked  the  oriole's  brilliant  hue. 

How  fair  thou  wert  that  happy  morn  ! 

I  turned  to  gaze  upon  thy  face, 
Where  beauty,  of  the  spirit  born, 

Looked  outward  in  serenest  grace; 


REMEMBRANCE. 

Then  broke  a  lovely  crimson  spray, 
With  waxen  leaves  of  darkest  green, 

And  soon,  a  glowing  wreath,  it  lay 
Thy  folds  of  soft  brown  hair  between. 

And  then  I  kissed  thee.     Ah,  my  love ! 

Would  that  our  past  might  live  again ! 
For  thou  ha^t  flown  to  realms  above, 

While  I  am  standing  here,  as  then. 

But  now  from  these  same  flowers  I  twine 
A  simple  wreath  to  deck  thy  grave. 

Woe  that  a  form  so  dear  as  thine 

Love  had  no  power  to  shield  or  save ! 


REMEMBRANCE. 

BELOVED,  if  thine  earnest  eyes 
So  deeply  blue,  so  darkly  bright, 

Look  downward  from  the  azure  skies 
That  hide  thee  from  my  yearning  sight; 

Think  not  because  my  days  go  on 
Just  as  they  did  when  thou  wert  here, 

Sometimes  in  shade,  sometimes  in  sun, 
From  month  to  month,  from  year  to  year, 

That  I  forget  thee !     Fresh  and  green 
Over  each  grave  the  grass  will  grow 

In  God's  good  time,  and  all  unseen 
The  violets  take  deep  root  below. 


7.V  MEMO RT AM. 

But  yet  the  grave  itself  remains 

Beneath  the  verdure  and  the  bloom; 

And  kindly  Nature's  loving  pains 
Can  only  hide  the  ghastly  tomb. 

I  work,  I  read,  I  sing,  I  smile, 

I  train  my  vines  and  tend  my  flowers, 

But  under-thoughts  of  thee  the  while 
Haunt  me  through  all  the  passing  hours 

And  still  my  spirit  yearns  for  thee 
As  it  must  yearn  till  life  is  past, 

Till  I  have  crossed  Death's  heaving  sea. 
And  meet  thy  clasping  hand  at  last. 


A    VISION. 

A  STRANGE,  wild  vision  of  the  night ! 
I  thought  I  stood  beside  her  bed, 
O'er  whom  such  bitter  tears  I  shed 

When  she  was  buried  from  my  sight — 
Ah  !  long  ago ! 

Won  from  the  cruel  grave's  embrace 
My  darling  lay  before  me  there ; 
But  o'er  the  features  once  so  fair, 

And  o'er  the  limbs'  unconscious  grace, 
A  white  pall  swept. 

Then  a  calm  voice,  whose  low  command 
Thrilled  me  with  strange,  resistless  power, 
Swayed  me  as  soft  winds  sway  a  flower, 


VISION, 

Said,  solemnly,  "Reach  forth  thine  hand, — 
Unveil  the  face!" 


191 


I  shrank  and  trembled.     From  my  lips 
A  cry  went  upward.     Could  I  bear 
To  see  Decay's  dread  impress  there? 

Or  view  her  beauty's  sad  eclipse 
And  yet  live  on? 

The  deep,  low  voice  repeated, — "Look!" 
Oh,  God  !  I  tore  the  veil  away, 
But  hid  my  sad  eyes  from  the  day 

With  clasping  hand.     I  could  not  brook 
Death's  work  to  see. 

"  Look  and  fear  not !"  I  looked,  and  lo ! 

I  saw  my  darling  as  of  old; 

Unchanged  the  brown  hair's  lustrous  fold, 
Unchanged  the  red  lip's  crimson  glow, 
The  brow's  pure  snow  ! 

And  while  I  gazed  as  in  a  dream 

The  blue  eyes  opened,  large  and  soft, 
Filled  with  the  tender  light  that  oft 

Had  thrilled  me  with  its  wondrous  gleam 
In  days  gone  by. 


She  smiled,  and  softly  breathed  my  name; 

I  clasped  her  to  my  throbbing  breast ; 

Her  fresh  young  lips  to  mine  were  pressed, 
Her  changing  color  went  and  came 
Like  rosy  flame ! 


192 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

"This  is  a  miracle  !"  I  cried, — 

"My  love,  my  darling!  in  the  grave, 
From  which  no  earthly  arm  could  save, 

Long  months  ago — ah !  woe  betide ! — 
We  laid  thee  down ! ' ' 

"Yet  still,  beloved,  I  am  here," 
Said  the  sweet  lips  in  calm  reply; 
Then,  ere  a  moment  flitted  by, 

My  arms,  outstretched  in  love  and  fear, 
Touched  empty  air ! 

Afar  yet  near !  Unseen,  yet  still 
A  living  presence  by  my  side. 
The  gulf  between  us  is  not  wide; 

My  own  lost  love !  I  trust  thee  till 
We  meet  once  more ! 


THE    END. 


'TNTVERSTTY  at  CALIFORNIA 

AT 

LOS  ANGELES 
LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
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